


Apotheosis

by RunTheJewels



Series: Legend Has It [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, an annoying amount of asoiaf references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunTheJewels/pseuds/RunTheJewels
Summary: "I have an army.""I have a sleep-deprived Farkas!"---------------------------Alduin has been silenced, the Volkihar destroyed, the dragons routed and the rebellion crushed. With no more enemies, the province of Skyrim is set to turn on itself, refusing to see the true threat brewing to their east. One has seen it. The First Dragonborn, making his return. A Prince at his head, a tide of Daedra at his back. The others must be made to do so as well. The Last Dragonborn must unite the disparate forces of Skyrim into the wall against which this darkness breaks. Pray he succeeds and that he does not fall to his own tyrannical nature in the process, becoming the very monster he wanted to destroy.Don't act so surprised. You were warned to beware...
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Male Orsimer, Moth gro-Bagol/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Series: Legend Has It [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1254779
Comments: 39
Kudos: 19





	1. Hands Once Idle

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, I’m excited for this. Spent a long time trying to plan out this story right and I hope I impress. 
> 
> The opening song and Felwinter’s first theme is (this joke has been a long time coming) “Legend Has It” by Run the Jewels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act One: Blood of the Dragon

The hand around his arm threw itself forward and he was taken along with it. Felwinter felt himself fly and fall, his knee scraping against the rough stone as he hit the ground face and stomach first. He pushed himself up, clutching at his aching torso before he regained his bearings. “Wait…” he huffed, still trying to catch his wind knocked from him. He turns towards the cell gate. “Wait!” he cried again. Felwinter scrambled to his feet, limping on his hurting leg but running the best he could for the still open gate.

It slammed shut, hard and in his face. Felwinter grabs the bars and pushes. He pushes and pushes with as much strength as his body could give and succeeding only in barely rattling the bars. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “I didn’t do anything! It was just an accident!”

The guardsman who locked him in the cell tells him to shut up, walking away. Another, sitting on a bench against the wall, barely pays him any mind. “It was an accident,” Felwinter pleaded again. An accident that happened so quickly. An angry old man calling guards down upon him. A ball through an ornate glass window he hadn’t even thrown. Next thing he knew, he was being dragged away, his arm clutched so tightly, he thought it broken.

He recognized the Stormhaven prison, given how many times he had passed it when walking with his mother. A tall building of hard stone, black wood and an ominous air, it was never the best part of the trip. Now all he had learned was that the inside was much worse. Rows and rows of ugly, dark cells stinking of something wet that maybe he could have placed if he was in a better state of mind. Some were occupied. Most of those occupants stared as he was dragged past. Others spoke. Loudly, jeering. Said things he didn’t know the meaning of and was certain he never wanted to.

“Please,” Felwinter begged. “Please. I don’t belong here!”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“I said shut up!” The other one is looking at him now.

“My mother,” Felwinter suggests, wrapping his hands around the iron bars and ignoring the stinging cold. “My mother, she’ll help. Or my grandfather.” The guardsman who had locked his cell door was now walking back. Instinctively, Felwinter pressed closer to the bars, as if he could slide through and escape. “Just tell them what happened,” he said, his voice already going hoarse. “They’ll help fix it. Or help pay the man back, just...I don’t belong here. I don’t. I-”

The leg comes up before Felwinter can see it. It connects to significant effect. Felwinter finds himself flying and falling again, sent down and sprawling onto his back, the knee thrown up at him so forcefully, it rang his ears like bells and exploded with pain.

The dark, imposing silhouette of the guard leaning against the bar blurs in Felwinter’s eyes. His hands clutched his nose, wet and stinging so terribly, he could feel it behind his eyes. The other guardsman, still back against the wall, watching them, chuckled.

“When I tell you to shut up, you _shut up_ ,” the first one said. Felwinter’s vision blurs even more so. The guardsman cocks his head, a cruel smile curling on his mouth. “You gonna cry, little man?”

Felwinter tries not to. He tries and he tries but he fails and drops of water begin to leak out from his eyes. The smirking guard stops doing so. His ice-blue eyes burn holes into Felwinter’s head. “Speak again. Just once more, boy. I dare you.”

He turns away, leaving the cell room with the other guard standing to follow. The tears spill over when the door is closed. Felwinter’s ears are as red and hot as his nose and face. Now every part of him was hurting and he felt every bit of it as he tried to stand. Even as he did, thin, shaking legs could not hold him up for very long. Felwinter resorted to crawling towards the back wall, curling into a ball as soon as he was against it.

His nose was still stinging, badly as well as his left eye. He sniffs, bringing a hand up to wipe away the wetness. He looks at his hand after he does and sees the dark streaks. Across the way, a trail of droplets, black in the low light follows him from where he had fallen and red splotches dot his shirt. Felwinter’s eyes begin to wet again but nothing falls. He just closes them.

It was night and Felwinter woke to the sound of voices. Moonlight was streaming in through the grating on the wall too high for him to peek out of. His stomach gurgled and Felwinter put a hand to it. He had been here for hours.

The voices are distant but loud, almost shrill. Someone was shouting. The responding voice was much deeper, that of the guardsman. Felwinter flinched at the thought. But he began to push up to his feet, using the wall for support until he felt strong enough to venture out towards the gate on his own. The closer he got to the exit, the more Felwinter was spurred on by the voices, recognizing one much more than any others.

“ _You have no right_ ,” he hears his mother shout.

“ _I have every right. He broke the law._ ”

“ _It was a window! He is a child!”_ His mother practically shouts, “ _And you threw him in a prison full of dangerous outlaws. For a window. A window!”_

Felwinter calls for her. At least, he tries to. All that comes out is a croak, his throat drier than sand. Still, he tries and with every attempt, his voice comes a bit closer to the surface.

Felwinter pulls in a lungful of air, ready to shout; the arguing was getting worse. Then a bark of a command, sharp and almost violently loud and final. Everything went quiet. Felwinter most of all, his legs taking step after shaky step away from the bars and back into the safety of the shadows. The following words are low, quiet but powerful. And behind it was anger, one that was both terrifying and familiar.

_Grandfather._

* * *

Felwinter wakes with a start, shooting up before something against his chest forces him back down. He blinks to clear the sleep from his eyes until a worried face comes into focus.

“Apologies, thane,” Jordis says, pulling her hand back, “I’ve seen Argis’ nose.”

Felwinter irritably pushes her away and rises to sit. He rubs his head, aching from where he had laid it. Then, against his will, he rubbed his nose. Still bumpy, still crooked.

Their ship drifted slowly towards the docks. Most of the sails had been lowered to slow their approach. More and more, Solstheim came into view. The reports and stories hadn’t been exaggerating. The sun shone brightly but the area was still a dull, cloudy brown. The ash from Red Mountain’s eruption stayed high in the sky. By magical means, he recalls. There was little worry of breathing it in here.

Their captain calls their arrival, clearly unhappy about it. Felwinter couldn’t blame him. The place was making his already sour mood worse.

The ship pulls into a stop and Felwinter stands, bending his back in a deep stretch, complete with unnecessarily loud groaning. Jordis is now properly annoyed. That alone was enough to lift his mood.

“Gregor?” He calls out and Jordis nods towards the back of the ship. Felwinter turns to find him sitting on a bench along the stern, near the helm, intensely focused on the piece of wood he was whittling down with an old knife, too small for anything else. “Gregor!” His head shoots up and he looks around as if for the first time in hours. Pocketing the wood and tucking away the blade, he grabs his shield and stands, strapping the heavy thing to his back.

Felwinter takes one step off the boat as soon as it’s stopped. One step; he counted. It was usually all he needed before something ridiculous happened that ended with him in the middle of it. A beheading. A brazen attempt at extortion. Racial harassment. Cold-blooded murder. Whiterun was the only exception to this constant rule. Was it any wonder he made it his home?

“You there! Stop!”

There it was. Felwinter, surprisingly, did as he was told and went no further. A Dunmer man was coming down the docks towards them. Draped in fine clothing and flanked by two guards in strange bonelike armor, he must’ve been of some importance. Or probably liked to imagine himself as such. “I recognize the ship but not you,” he states, his tone clipped and already out of patience, “What is your business here?”

“Looking for work,” Felwinter lies. He wasn’t willing to give his hand so quickly. He jerked a thumb behind himself, “Hired guards. They’re with me.”

The Dunmer man scoffs. “Strange place to come looking for work but if you’re feeling lucky, by all means. I am Adril Arano,” he introduces, “I am the second to First Councilor Lleril Morvayn and on his behalf, I ask that you remain on your best behavior while in Raven Rock. We are dealing with enough trouble as it is.”

“Anything I should be aware of?” Felwinter tried.

“Not if you’re not already involved.” Adril stepped back and out of Felwinter’s way, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like a word with the captain.”

Felwinter took the hint as well as his next steps. The more he did, the more he was sure of what he was feeling upon waking. This place was off, in a way that was not natural. Like a hand grabbing at the back of his neck or a weight on his shoulders, like ill-fitting armor. “Gregor. Jordis. Come here.” He stops at the edge of the dock and turns. “Try not to raise attention,” he ordered. “We’re visitors here and I don’t doubt that the cultists have people watching this town. Keep your eyes open and leave the questioning to me.”

“As you say, Thane.” Felwinter was almost surprised Gregor didn’t salute with that enthusiasm. They all started so eager. Then they got to know him. When Felwinter began to pull away and take off on his own, Gregor moved to follow. Jordis pulled him back. She had been with him long enough to know that their Thane never enjoyed being babysat.

Raven Rock was not lively. People moved slowly and silently, spoke quietly when they spoke at all and seemed overall to pay him little attention. Even the markets and those who attended the various stands kept their voices low. Felwinter pushed down the desire to call his armor to his person and kept moving.

A blacksmith’s shop was the first stop he made, just a bit past where the dock ended and the trail began. Head down towards a steel sword and a working grindstone sat one of the only other Men in Raven Rock. Despite the noise, the blacksmith kept a sharp ear out, hearing Felwinter approach and waiting for him to stop before speaking. “Either you’re here to get showered with sparks or you want to buy something.” He lifts the blade, examining the edge. “So what is it?”

Felwinter nodded down. “How much will the sparks cost me?”

“A waiver of responsibility.” Now he looks up. His eyebrows rise. “Don’t get many humans here in Raven Rock. You Redguard?”

“Sure.” The blacksmith raises an eyebrow and Felwinter just grins. “What type of people usually come through here?”

“Raven Rock doesn’t ‘get people through here’.” He says, “Solstheim, in general, doesn’t ‘get people through here.’ Not unless they have no other choice.” With his free hand, he points north, towards a steep rise of earth that overlooked the rest of the settlement. “Skaal traders visit from the north.” He pointed northeast. “A Nord mead hall in that direction.” His hand moves a bit further. “Some weird mage tower to the southeast.”

Dunmer mages. Not much of a lead but it was something. The blacksmith continued talking, “What are you in town for, stranger?” He asks, standing up from the grindstone.

“Work.”

“Strange place to come for that.

“So I’ve been told.”

“And hard to believe.” The blacksmith pointed towards the rocky rise, towards old wooden doors, shut close. “That place was the best for work,” he says, but that was before it was closed down.”

“How did the town take it?” Felwinter took a seat on a ledge near the forge.

Big shoulders jump in a shrug. “As well as you’d expect. It was a long time ago but the people are still struggling. That mine put Raven Rock on the map and brought plenty of people here for work.” He picked up a wooden axe with a black metal head from his workbench, sitting down and starting the grindstone again.

Felwinter turned back to look at the northern rise again and at the sealed gate. “Any news on the mine reopening?”

The grindstone stopped. “A dry mine? I doubt it,” he scoffed. “Another human, an Imperial whose been here for a while, has been trying to get inside with no luck. Just getting in. Not reopening.”

Felwinter hummed, his disappointment barely hidden. Another lead gone dry before he could follow it. Desperation makes people do unfortunate, stupid things. Things that cost them their heads. He stands up again. “Thanks for the info…”

“Glover.”

Felwinter gives his own name. This man isn’t with the cultists. There’s no danger. He leaves the forge behind and continues his walk about the town. He finds Jordis and Gregor at a stand, selling what he hoped was sujamma or shein. Jordis was examining the smiling Dunmer’s wares. Gregor, on the other hand, looked about ready to piss himself, probably on the lookout for his thane.

“Are we drinking on the job now?” He calls out as he approaches and tries to keep from smiling when Gregor nearly flies out of his own skin. Jordis was taking a small cup of the drink from the merchant to sample and paying him little mind. Felwinter nods to the merchant in greeting. “Sujamma?”

“Sujamma, my friend! Best in town.” He’s already taking out another cup when Felwinter puts up a hand to stop him, his other fishing out a handful of septims. The merchant beams even more, Gregor looked dumbfounded and Jordis still paid them all little mind, except to mutter that she told him so.

Felwinter takes the small bottle and claps a hand against Gregor’s shoulder. “Walk with me for a minute.” He leaves without waiting for a response. Gregor dutifully follows. Pulling the cork out with his teeth, Felwinter takes a pull and nearly hacks his lungs out through his throat. “This shit could strip paint!” He practically howls. Then he takes another. “Oh, I’m gonna buy out this man’s entire store.”

Gregor leans back when Felwinter offers him the drink. “You don’t partake?”

“Not...on the job,” he says, “It’s not professional.”

“Pffft.” Felwinter pulls a flask from his hip, opens it and drains the remaining contents. Then carefully, he pours the Dunmer liquor in its stead, topping it off before pushing it towards the Nord. “Consider it an order then. Decide if disobeying one is less professional.”

Gregor’s eyes darted from him to the flask then back. He nodded and accepted it. The tiniest swig left him in a coughing fit and left Felwinter cackling. “Right? Put some chest on your chest!” He crowed, taking flask back as well as another pull. Felwinter tucked the flask away and said, “I realize we never got much of a chance to talk before this.”

Gregor kept facing forward, though his eyes turned towards him. “It is nothing I can’t handle, Thane.”

Felwinter wasn’t convinced. The man was jumpy, sticking uncomfortably close and remaining over-alert for any attack on his Thane. Again, Lydia, Argis and Jordis had started off the same way, doing their best to be his servile and obedient bodyguards. All of it began to lax as they realized Felwinter needed little of their protection and wanted even less of their servitude. Lydia’s even bloodied his nose on more than one occasion. Nothing he didn’t deserve. “Have you always lived in Dawnstar?” He tied, hoping to get him talking.

“Aye, I have. Lived a small life. A guard of the Pale, my Thane.” His shoulders began to drop as he spoke.

“And what caused the promotion?” Felwinter eyes two people near the entrance of Raven Rock’s mine, arguing. A Dunmer woman and the Imperial man Glover mentioned before.

“Helped root out a bandit camp that had been causing problems,” he answered, sounding just a little proud. “Jarl Skald originally cared little. The bandits rarely targeted us, mainly traveling merchants on the roads.”

Felwinter grunted. “Khajiit?”

“Mostly, my Thane,” Gregor sighed, “I convinced the captain to let me assemble a force and he did. It was when Jarl Brina took over that I was recognized for my service and elevated to housecarl.”

Felwinter brought up a hand and clapped the Nord’s armored shoulder again. “Bandit camp aside, I promise things won’t get too exciting around me.” He shrugged. “Assuming you can handle a dragon. Or three.”

Gregor stopped walking. Felwinter didn’t. “Fighting, Thane?”

Felwinter turned back to him with a smile. “That too!” Gregor shook the nerves of his head out and rushed to try and catch up. A simple upheld hand stopped him. He was talking to someone else now, an elderly, Imperial man. Behind them was the entranceway into the rocky wall towering above their heads. A mine shaftway. A Dunmer woman stands off from the pair, crushing plants in a mortar, overly forceful in her work.

Gregor turned back towards the central market, where they had left Jordis. She had moved on as they did but in the opposite direction, making her way towards a short stone spire in the distance, one with people moving around it. His Thane was still occupied, so he goes to follow.

Felwinter watches as he does and takes note of his destination. Crescius had finished talking. “So you think the East Empire Company is hiding something,” he asked, turning his attention back.

The short and slight older man turned his focus towards the entrance to the mine. “I do. It just makes no sense how he died. I may not have much but I have a minder’s instinct and those tunnels,” he said, “They’re solid. Very solid. They would never collapse like that.”

“Hard to say when you’ve never been inside.”

He turned back, brow furrowed and shoulders raised. “There’s nothing wrong with respecting your wife’s wishes and there’s nothing fair about-”

Felwinter put his hands up. “Peace, old man. I’m not making fun of you,” he assured with a small smile. He’d have little place to if he was, given how his mother can still cow him into eating his vegetables from a province away.

It was clear none of this has anything to do with him. No “true Dragonborn”, no zealots. He had little time or interest in going on a treasure hunt for a corpse right now.

“Look, I don’t have much.” Crescius started to fish into his pockets before he could walk away. He pulled out a small booklet and a bronze key. “But you look strong and capable. You’d be rewarded.” He passes the items over, using his other hand to wrap Felwinter’s fingers around them.

Not his problem, he repeats over and over. They become insults and curses as he says, “I can’t do this now. When I have time. Before I leave for Skyrim.”

Crescius let out a shocked breath. “Thank you, sir! I...I promise, I’ll do my best to make it worth your time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Felwinter struggled to pull his hand out of his vice grip. “I can’t promise anything, though. Not a body or anything that will even help.”

And at that, Crescius huffs a laugh. “I’m not looking for remains at this point, young man,” he said, “Just some peace of mind before my time here is up. My great-grandfather was always a source of inspiration for me. I want to know what happened.”

Felwinter’s mouth opens and closes, unable to find a proper response. Instead, he just nods and watches as the man leaves him. Felwinter turned his eyes back towards the stone structure. His housecarls were still there, eyes on the structure more than anything else, even the people moving around it, who seemed to pay them no mind. As he made his way through the town, he noticed that they weren’t alone in their observations. A mage, he could tell that much. Dunmer, like the rest of the town but in red and gold robes; flowing, ornate, too fine to belong to just anyone. The mage wasn’t a commoner. Felwinter knows nobility when he sees it.

No one reacts to his arrival, least of all the people working around the structure. The thing is bigger up close. Sharp point at the top, standing at a height of two of him. He can’t at all figure out what is being made around it. Arches made of brown stone, strange spirals etched into them that are almost familiar. The workers are silent, though the occasional mutter leaves their lips.

Not at each other, he feels. To themselves, then? The gods? He can feel something coming off the stone. He isn’t sure he likes it.

“Is there something I’m not seeing? Hello?” Only his housecarls turn to face him. The mage pays him as little mind as the workers. Yet, he doesn’t seem nearly as dronish as the workers ignoring them. He had a finger to his chin, red eyes sharp and alert, focused on both the stone and the people working on it.

“Apologies, Thane.” Jordis is blinking her eyes, as if clearing off sleep. “Do we have a lead?”

“We don’t.” Felwinter jerks his chin at the thing and moved closer to it. “You’ve spent all this time here. Do you know what it is?”

“We call it the Earth Stone.” The Dunmer’s voice breaks through the sharp, heavy quiet and any doubt of his status is erased as soon as he speaks. “The Dunmer have little use for it but the Skaal, Nordic tribes to the north, consider it to be one of their ‘pillars of creations’ and all that nonsense,” he continues with a snuff. “Though, I admit to a sense of magic about it.”

Felwinter looked around at the workers. None were Men, let alone Nords. “Why are Dunmer working on a Skaal religious artifact?”

“It has magical properties,” he said again, “Though, they are different from the ones causing...this.” He gestures to the workers with a wave of his hand. Then, he twists his head to catch Felwinter’s eyes.

At the same time, Felwinter feels something bump into him. He turns to find Gregor, stumbling back and shaking his head as if he was hit. “My Thane, I am...so sorry,” he says, his eyes still glassy and hooded, “I did not see you there, I…”

“You didn’t see me walk past you to get a closer look?” Felwinter turned back to the stone.

The Dunmer had also turned back. “If any of you feel a pressing need to touch the object, please, go right ahead. I’m sure it will prove enlightening for at least some of us.”

“You’re welcome to take the lead,” Felwinter says back and the Dunmer scoffs, as if the idea of doing what he suggests to others is beyond him. Whatever was off about this place, whatever he felt as soon as they pulled into Raven Rock’s tiny port, it rolled off in waves here. But this pull the Dunmer mentioned, this unexplainable desire to touch the stone, Felwinter felt nothing of.

But it is there. Jordis is staring at it. Gregor bumps into him walking towards it and again, followed it up with an apology for not having seen Felwinter in his way. As in character as it would be for him to do, Felwinter didn’t feel safe touching it.

“You feel nothing?” the Dunmer asks, “Nothing at all? Not even a little bit?”

He does not. “Dunmer-”

“I have a name,” he interrupts, his brow furrowing. The first sign of emotion he’s shown all day.

“Fine. What do you know about men and women in masks, Dunmer with a name?”

The brow tightens further, then loosens entirely. His eyes dart back and forth across Felwinter’s face. It was very clear he knew something and that he was terrible at hiding it. The magic started to build in Felwinter’s marked arm. The Dunmer’s eyes shifted in its direction before returning to his face.

A scream echoed from far away and reached both of their ears. Felwinter spins around to find the source, looking back towards Raven Rock. People are yelling and running, guardsmen towards the town gate, civilians away from it. The cause, Felwinter cannot make out.

“Human.” Felwinter turns back to the Dunmer, his magic still at the ready. But the Dunmer pays it no mind, already in the process of walking. “My home is southeast of here along the coast. Meet me there if you wish to talk further.”

Felwinter watches the Dunmer make his way away from the Earth Stone and the town, hands clasped behind his back but a sense of urgency in his steps. Felwinter wanted to follow. To detain him and make him talk.

But Gregor bumps into him again and in a huff, Felwinter grabs him by the wrist and begins to lead him down the hill and towards the town, as quickly as he could manage, leaving the Dunmer to disappear into the distance. Jordis, slowly and hesitantly, follows behind, her eyes and attention still being tugged upon by the Earth Stone.

The workers around the stone remained where they were hauling lumber and stone around their worksite and muttering all the while. Raven Rock devolved into chaos below and they, as they always did, paid it no mind.


	2. March of the Dead

Felwinter pushed his way through the crowd, letting Gregor take his arm back as they moved further and further away from the Earth Stone. Many were making for buildings; their homes, the tavern, the temple. Anything that appeared to have a sturdy door to hold out against…whatever it was that had come from them.

Arms darting out, Felwinter grabbed a hold of Glover before he could get past. The blacksmith ceased his struggling as soon as they locked eyes. “What is this, Glover? What’s happening?”

“The Spawn. They’re attacking again.” He grabbed Felwinter’s arm in turn and shouted to be heard over the commotion, “Listen to me, you need to get inside!”

“The Spawn? Spawn of what?” But Glover forced his way out of Felwinter’s grip. “Glover!”

“Get inside, Felwinter!” He yelled while backing away, “Quickly!”

Felwinter watched him disappear into his home before turning back to the eastern gate. The way was clearing out. The people were well-practiced in their panic. Spawned by what? Or who? If this “true Dragonborn” has anything to do with it, he’d find out. Either way, these people needed help.

Magic built up in his marked arm once again and this time, it spread across the whole of his body, clothing him in soft blue light. When the magic dispelled, bright light had been replaced by deep black armor; solid greaves, a thick, heavy breastplate and gauntlets, the dark fingers filed down to wicked claws. “‘Bout time I got to kill something.” Felwinter started ahead. “Follow closely,” he ordered.

It wasn’t until he was almost in the midst of the chaos closest to the gate that Felwinter got any sort of look at the town’s assailants. Short, rail-thin creatures, seemingly made of packed-together stone and covered in a thin, dirty white layer of snow or ash. They held old, crude weapons that glowed a dim, ember-warm shade of red. The air reeked of smoke, burning flesh and magic.

Ungainly, he thought when he took in their fighting. Fire users with weapons but unskilled.

His observations were cut when one of them broke through the wall of Redoran guardsmen, shambling its way through the opening and making a mad dash for anyone nearby that it could sink its blade into.

They didn’t think. Otherwise, they might have chosen someone else.

Jordis was quick, moving to put herself between her thane and the charging monster. Felwinter proved quicker, not giving her a chance. His arm shot out, stopping the Spawn in its tracks with a large hand wrapped around its thin neck.

It was hot to the touch and flailed wildly in his grip. The thing had only red, glowing embers for eyes and with it closer, Felwinter could feel the magic coursing through its entire being. If only he had time to study them.

More were beginning to push through the weakened shield wall the guards had formed. “Jordis!” Felwinter called, pulling his magic from deep within. Cold burst forth from its arm and locked the Spawn in a thin sheet of ice. Ice that was melting as quickly as it was forming. Darting forward again, Jordis brought her blade across the creature's neck, sending its head flying off into the distance. The rest of it crumbled in Felwinter’s hand, falling into a pile of dust and ash, soaking from melted ice water.

Zazikel appeared in his now free hand while a violet disc of magic manifested on the gauntlet of the other. “Plug the breach!” Felwinter ordered, running forward. He rammed into the wall of Spawn, Gregor and Jordis pushing their way into the crowd of guards along with him. Felwinter took note of other guardsmen, ahead of the rest of them, fighting smaller groups of Spawn while the main force concentrated on the entrance. Still, they remained close enough that if Felwinter attempted to Shout the wall of Spawn apart, they’d be caught in the blast. Instead, Felwinter yelled out, “On me! On me! Heads down!”

The heads of several guardsmen swiveled towards him, to the stranger demanding their attention and giving orders. But only for half-seconds before they obeyed. Weakening stances widened, various shoulders hunched and squared and heads dropped below upright shields.

“Now push!”

The warriors heaved a collective groan. The load against Felwinter’s shield lightened just slightly as the guards pushed at his command. He gave it again, “Push!”

The Spawn kept railing against their advance, bodily throwing themselves into the shields of the Redoran guards. Felwinter ordered once more. “Push!”

Another collective heave, louder and more forceful. The mass of Spawn slid backwards. Some stumbled and fell backwards, crushed beneath the heels of both their allies and opponents. Not enough; not enough for the Felwinter and the guards to break through their ranks and split the main force.

Zazikel disappeared in a shimmer. Weapon hand free, Felwinter now had both to put behind his shield of hard magical light. “Jordis! Gregor! Follow my lead!” Felwinter’s throat was already going hoarse. “Protect the sides! Move forward and protect the sides!”

It made little sense, he knew that. And in the thick of things, maybe it was too much to ask that they try and understand. But if this worked, if they made it work, they could just all very well live to fight another day. Maybe then, Felwinter would take the time to explain himself better.

“ _FUS!”_

A small wave of force but enough to send several Spawn sliding back and the less balanced falling over. Felwinter pushed with every bit of strength he had through the weakening wall and Jordis and Gregor did as he commanded and pushed along with him. Gods be praised, the rest of the Redoran guard had figured it out. Felwinter Shouted again, immediately pressed against the stumbling Spawn and the guards turned as he did, protecting their sides and flanks as the monsters attempted to push and claw their way through.

Shout, then heave. Shout, then heave. Little by little until the Spawn truly began to give way and Felwinter could see the land past them. Those still fighting on the other side took notice of their advance. Some broke ended their engagements as quickly as they could, others simply broke them off in an attempt to get out of the way.

As soon as the way was clear, as soon as he was sure no one would be caught up, Felwinter dropped his arms and finally let loose.

“ _FUS RO DAH!”_

The wall of Spawn was blown to pieces and the pieces were sent soaring; some so high, they cast shadows over the rest. Heaves and yells became cheers and roars as the shield wall broke apart and moved forward, pushing their newly found offensive. Jordis and Gregor stayed behind with Felwinter, looking to him for guidance.

A simple jerk of his head was their leave. The two Nords turned back around and charged into the fray, with Felwinter right on their heels. Shield raised, Jordis rammed herself into a Spawn attempting to attack one of the Dunmer warriors from behind. The thing was lifted bodily off the ground and landed on its back, not even given a moment to react before the Dunmer’s blade pushed through its face and out the back of its head. Gregor, for the most part, fought alone and unlike in the hours since their arrival, he seemed to be more in his element than ever before, disarming a Spawn with a swing of his blade, too smooth to be over-practiced but too fine of form to be simple instinct. The thing charged him anyway and met only the solid wall of his shield right before meeting the cold steel of his sword, thrust over the top of his defenses and into the creature’s throat.

Felwinter did as he always did, going wherever he could hit something, cut something down or blow something to pieces. Despite being creatures of fire or maybe due to it, the Spawn showed no weakness against ice. Any attempt to freeze them in place, be it with magic or Shouts, did little to even slow them. Fire was less than useless, not even worth attempting. Lightning served just fine, even seemed to stun and paralyze somewhat and Felwinter was all too happy to throw as much as he could their way.

Bit by bit, the number of Spawn dwindled. Some broke off on their own accord, either in an attempt to flee or to move back into a more advantageous position. Either way, Felwinter chased them down, either running his blade through their backs or blowing the center mass apart with bursts of shock.

Knee into the back of one, with his blade following, Felwinter looked up to see one more Spawn. Bigger than the others and facing away from the rest of them. Its attention was focused on a downed guard. His helmet had been knocked off and his ash and sweat-streaked face was tight with pain, panic and indignation.

Felwinter bounded across the distance before the monster’s raised blade could drop. He shoved Zazikel into its knee, doing more to draw its attention than to hinder or harm it. The dropping blade changed directions and Felwinter barely had time to tuck in and avoid the swing. The Spawn’s other arm caught him instead, sending him sliding away some distance until he dug his heels into the dry soil and stopped.

The Spawn was completely focused on him now and the downed guard had taken the opportunity to scramble away. The creature ripped Zazikel out from its leg and tossed it far behind over its head. Blade raised high, it charged Felwinter.

Felwinter charged in return, breaking into a hard sprint. Sword arm empty but held up and tense, the other arm bracing it at the bicep; Felwinter ran until he had decided the Spawn was close enough. Magic burst from the markings on his arm. Zazikel, lodged somewhere in the dirt and out of sight, teleported to his waiting hand. The hilt appeared in Felwinter’s vice-like grip while its blade found purchase in the Spawn’s throat, stopping it in its tracks.

It wasn’t in pain, Felwinter noticed as he pushed the blade deeper. It seemed to have frozen more in surprise than anything else. Whatever it was, it recovered quickly. The Spawn let its blade clatter to the ground and brought its hands down. Keeping hold of the blade’s hilt, Felwinter darted to the left and then forced himself around towards the creature’s back. As he did, the blade twisted with him and when he ripped it out with a shout, the Spawn’s neck gave way. It’s head rolled down its chest and towards the ground, dissolving into ash on impact. The rest of the Spawn’s body fell apart shortly after.

The remaining Spawn had been cleared out, the fight becoming a sweep as soon as they had broken through the main force. Guardsmen sat on the ground, attempting to calm their nerves, patched their wounds, laughed and embraced. Felwinter was glad to have stepped in.

The guard he had saved was on his feet again, looking over his fellows until his eyes landed on Felwinter and the housecarls rejoining him. The Dunmer took several steps forward before stumbling, his words devolving into croaks. Felwinter darted forward, catching the man before he could fall over and hit the ground.

Other guardsmen moved in immediately and almost wordlessly to take him. Hoisting him up, two carried the Dunmer back into Raven Rock but not before leaving Felwinter, Jordis and Gregor their thanks.

“You handled yourself well for your first time,” Felwinter told Gregor, summoning a scabbard to his waist and sheathing his sword.

Red-faced from exhaustion, Gregor nearly bowed. “You honor me, Thane.” He watched as Felwinter knelt before a pile of ash. “It was a tough fight but I’m sure nothing the two of you hadn’t seen before,” Gregor chuckled.

“Oh, I’ve never seen this before, Gregor.” Felwinter stuck his hand into the pile of ash, still warm to the touch.

“Neither have I,” Jordis echoed. Felwinter looked behind them, back towards the town, where the men were retreating though the public square remained empty.

“The Second Chancellor spoke about trouble. Think this was it?” He asked.

Jordis was already shaking her head. “No, there would be no reason to keep this a secret from us.”

“But it is the kind of thing you warn-” Footsteps interrupted them. A Dunmer in dust-caked bonemold armor slowed his bounding to a halt. Then seemingly remembering his manners, bowed.

“Captain Veleth requests your presence in the infirmary,” he huffed, “He wishes to thank you for the assistance you lent today. For our lives as well as his own.”

“Was he the Dunmer who fainted?”

“Yes. Exhaustion and injuries though he is awake now. If you’d follow me?” He gestured back towards the town. Felwinter nodded and did as bade.

* * *

“My lords. My lady.” Veleth stood and held out his hand, taking Felwinter’s, Jordis’ and Gregor’s in quick succession. He was short-haired, lean and as tall as Felwinter himself. He looked strong enough, even when wrapped in bandages. “The valor you showed today was incredible. My men are already speaking about it and toasting to your health.”

“There are people toasting and I wasn’t invited?”

Veleth smiled. “My friend, you most likely won’t have to buy your own drinks for the rest of the week.”

Felwinter hummed and smiled. He unhooked his blade from his belt and leaned it against the wall, by a chair within which he sat down. Jordis and Gregor took it as their cue to do the same and when Felwinter gestured to the cot, Veleth lowered himself to sit, visibly relieved. Only then did Felwinter speak again. “Can you tell me about them? Your blacksmith called them ‘Spawn’. He wasn’t interested in explaining more, what with the running for his life.”

“Ash Spawn. Began appearing after Baar Dau angered Red Mountain, early in the era,” Veleth explained, “One of our Elders believe them to be reanimated remains of our dead.”

“You cremate your dead, don’t you?” Felwinter had never heard of reviving corpses from ash, except in the case of ghosts and shades. Dawnbreaker’s own enchantment reduced dead to ash specifically to prevent them from being called back a second time.

“Of course. Always have. But some have appeared in our ancestral tombs, so I am inclined to believe him.”

“I used ice while fighting them,” Felwinter said, “It did little.”

“Their fire is hotter than normal.” Veleth’s bandaged hand went to his bandaged side. “Gods know I’ve learned that the hard way more than once. Ice has little effect, fire has none. Less, I would even wager but we’ve had little time to test that.”

“If I may ask…” Gregor quickly looked to Felwinter, who nodded, “Are attacks always this bad?”

“They weren’t. Then they were.” Veleth turned to stare out of a window, aimed at the front gate. Guards were beginning to resume normal rotations. “Before they were unorganized. The attacks were more frequent but weak. About a month ago, that changed. They started arriving less often but in force, moving and behaving like a proper unit. It was unexpected and effective. Now it is expected...and still effective. In the last four attacks, I have lost seven men. That is more than in the preceding ten combined. Both my men and I have all but come to expect that if they arrive and we meet them, some of us would not be returning. When that Spawn berserker had me on the ground, I thought it would be me.”

“How many did you lose this time?” Felwinter asked.

Veleth smiled. “None, my friend. None. And that is thanks to the three of you.”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve never heard of such a threat.” One of Felwinter’s clawed fingers began to tap against the armor around his leg. “I’ve spent some time in the Gray Quarter of Windhelm.” Veleth’s smile thinned just slightly. He had heard of it. Unsurprising, the place was infamous now. “More now that Ulfric is dead and my friend, the new Jarl, wants my help in renovations and expansion.”

Veleth’s expression lightened again. “Then you’ve been a friend to my people in more ways than one. But as for why you might not have heard of them, it is mainly us that they plague. Especially in recent times, though the Skaal have reported troubles.”

“Does it have anything to do with the Earth Stone?”

Veleth’s smile disappeared completely. Felwinter’s finger stops moving. In another room, connected by a door left ajar, sounds of movement stop for too long to be a coincidence and then continues.

“This started long before the Earth Stone. But it did indeed get worse around the same time that... _thing_ started compelling our people.” Veleth’s voice had gone quiet but bridled with a kind of anger.

Felwinter, however, felt otherwise. He got to his feet. “Then please, allow me to find out more. If you have any information, any leads, I’d be glad to look into them for you.”

The captain’s eyes flit back and forth between the three of them. “You’ve done enough for us, friend. More than enough. I can’t ask you to do more.”

“But you’re not asking that I do this. _I’m_ asking for your leave to do this.”

The Dunmer let out a long and weary sigh. “I was following the lead when they attacked.” He gestures to his side. “Caught us off guard.”

Felwinter opened his hand behind him. The sword and scabbard flew from the wall into his palm. “Where?”

“Attius Farms. South of here.”

* * *

Legs severed and useless, flat on the ground, the last of the Ash Spawn used its hands to crawl inch by inch towards its weapon, knocked out of its hand. Its attempt was doomed to end in failure when heavy, booted footsteps came up behind it. One of those feet lifted, pinning its skull into the dirt and then slowly pressing downwards until it was nothing more than a pile of ash, already scattering to the wind.

“A good sign,” Jordis said, sheathing her sword while Felwinter knocked caked ash and dirt from his boots. “This place was left defended.”

“Barely,” Felwinter muttered. Jordis began to walk about the ruined farm, stepping around the piles of former Spawn until a particular one captured her attention.

“Two fights in one day.” He bumped his shoulder into Gregor’s. “You keeping up?”

“Aye, thane. I think I am.” It was the truth. He was getting into the stride of things. “Though I still remember that you assured me things would not get crazy, thane.”

“That I did.”

“And less than an hour later, we were fighting undead fire monsters.” He gave a smile. “I admit to some confusion.”

“I promised things wouldn’t get crazy. I never promised your standards for ‘crazy’ wouldn’t change.” Gregor laughed at that. “Take heart, friend. You’ll be slaying dragons in no time.”

“I….huh?”

“Thane.”

Felwinter and Gregor turned to find Jordis approaching them. In her hand was a piece of paper, which she held out. “Found this on one of the Spawn. It’s writing.”

The Dragonborn’s brow furrowed. “These things can write too?” He took the paper and opened it, his eyes darting back and forth across the lines of text.

“Ink’s dry but the paper’s undamaged,” she said, “That suggests it was recent. None of these corpses died with it.”

His furrowed brow lifted once he got to the bottom. Then he folded the letter. “We need to get back to Raven Rock. Now.”

“There was a name at the end.” Jordis moved to follow when Felwinter began walking. “Falx.”

“Falx Carius. An Imperial general of the Legion, garrisoned on Solstheim.”

“So you know the name,” Jordis confirmed, “Have you met him before? While working with General Tullius?”

“No, I haven’t. And neither has Tullius.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because Falx Carius has been dead for two hundred years.”


	3. Honor Demands

“ _Raven Rock Stronghold. My calls for the unconditional surrender of your forces and an immediate cessation of all hostilities has been ignored numerous times. I therefore have no choice but to assume your purpose on Solstheim is hostile, and to treat Raven Rock Stronghold as an enemy of the Empire. I warn you, any attempt to breach Fort Frostmoth will be met with an equal level of aggression. I will do everything in my power to wipe you and your forces off the face of Tamriel. There will be no further communications between us._

_General Falx Carius_

_Garrison Commander, Fort Frostmoth_.”

Captain Veleth’s eyes flit from the writing to Felwinter, back to the writing, then back to Felwinter. The Dunmer waved the note around. “I suppose it is too much to ask that this be your idea of a terrible joke?”

“It’s a bit much, yeah.” Felwinter had resumed his original seat as soon as they returned to the town. Veleth had managed to get into cleaner clothing that better hid his bandages in the meantime.

The Dunmer started to pace, each step slow and deliberate, one foot in front of the other. He let out a humorless chuckle. “This man has been dead for several hundred years.”

Felwinter nodded. “Yes, he has.”

“Why is a _dead man_ moving against my town?” The frustration he had kept so well contained was slipping out. It could be heard in the low, clipped way he was asking his questions. “Damn it, why is he winning?!”

“We can’t be sure with the information we have.” Felwinter tracked him as he moved back and forth.

Veleth waved his hand irritably. “That doesn’t matter. We know where he is but we can’t attack. We don’t have the men to both assault a place like that and keep Raven Rock defended. We barely have the men to defend Raven Rock if this Falx decides to attack.”

Felwinter hummed. “I know of Carius but not about Frostmoth. Can you tell me more?”

“Built by Imperials when they first began stationing soldiers in Solstheim. Falx Carius was its last commander until Red Mountain-”

“Blew its top?”

Veleth affixed him with a look that was both amused and annoyed. “He was supposedly confirmed dead during the recovery efforts but if the mountain didn’t take him, age would have.”

“Yes, I think we can confirm he’s undead like his soldiers and I think we can assume there’s another behind Carius. But what of the place itself? Technical details.”

“Scouts report Spawn patrolling the area,” the captain said, “They naturally attack anyone who gets too close. Almost all the gates that would bar passage are in disrepair. I had a feeling about its importance when attacks worsened but _since the attacks_ _worsened_ , I haven’t been able to look further. It’s a ruin though. A strong enough force could take it.”

Felwinter shrugs. “A strong enough force...or a few good men.”

Veleth stopped pacing and affixed him with a look.

“Or two good men.”

“Felwinter…”

“Fine, one good man, one woman and me.”

“Felwinter! Ruin or not, that place is still a fortress. You’d be outnumbered three to one!”

Felwinter huffs out a small laugh, standing and saying, “Trust me, I’ve faced worse.”

Veleth scoffed. “I don’t understand this, Felwinter. I don’t understand you.” He watches Felwinter take Zazikel from its place against the wall. “You come to our town, not even here for up to a day and you throw yourself into not just one, but two of our battles? Why does this matter to you?” he demanded, “What do you seek to gain?”

Felwinter silently strapped Zazikel on, his back to the Dunmer. “I’m here for personal reasons, captain.”

“What kind of reasons?”

“ _Personal_ reasons,” he repeats, “And these undead, this general, they all might have something to do with those reasons. And that?” He lifts his hand and points out the window, in the direction of the Earth Stone, “That definitely has something to do with those reasons.”

Felwinter turned around completely and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I am going into Frostmoth, I’m taking that fort, I’m going to put Carius back into the ground where he belongs and as repayment, I’m going to hear more about what that stone is, what it’s doing and who is responsible, so I can put them in the ground too.”

Veleth bore his scrutiny longer and better than most would have but with a weary sigh, he turned away. “Fine,” he said, “I will fortify the town. We will stay out of your way.”

Felwinter was never asking permission. He thanked him anyway. With one last nod, Felwinter pulled the door open and stepped out. His housecarls stood against the wall of the healer’s clinic, where he had left them. Wordlessly, they followed as he began walking. The sun was going down, quicker than he was used to this time of year. He wondered if he’d have time to talk to Moth but he felt it better to wait until the morning, before they left for the fort.

“Thane?”

“Mm?”

“Sounded a bit intense in there,” Jordis said, “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. We have a plan now.”

“What’s our next move then?”

“He’s in Fort Frostmoth...so we’ll be taking Fort Frostmoth.”

Behind him, Gregor nods, his hand adjusting and readjusting on the hilt of his blade. “How many will we be taking?”

“Just three.”

Gregor slowed. “Veleth can only spare three men?” His eyes locked with Jordis when she turned to affix him with an odd look.

“Veleth isn’t giving us any men. We’re the three. We will be taking the fort.”

“What?!” He balked, drawing nearby eyes. He moved closer to Felwinter, lowering his voice. “Thane…”

“When do we move?” Jordis asked.

“Thane?” Gregor called again.

“Tomorrow.” He points to what appears to be an inn, one of the first places to have started receiving traffic after the attack, from civilians and guards alike. Felwinter could imagine needing a drink, after something like that. “We’ll rest there for the night and move out in the morning.”

“Thane!” Jordis and Felwinter stop. Gregor was a bit behind. “A fort? Just the three of us? Against a fort?!”

“Yes?” The man had the gall to give him that look, as if it was ridiculous that he could mean any other way. Before Gregor could point out how ridiculous this was, Felwinter silenced any further argument. “It’s getting late. We should eat and turn in, prepare for tomorrow. Come on.”

Gregor's shoulders fell but still, he followed. Felwinter easily got them a table for the night, rooms to leave their things in and enough food to hold them till morning. Gregor listened to the other two talk all through the early evening and remained sullenly silent. They talked about the upcoming moot, the rooting out of Stormcloak encampments, some girl named Serana, looking for books out of Solitude’s palace. Nothing that even slightly concerned tomorrow.

As Captain Veleth had promised, not a single one of Felwinter’s septims had gone towards drinks. One long-haired Dunmer started their round, personally putting one of the mugs into Jordis’ hands. She had saved him from a Spawn’s sword through the back and this was just a small token of his immense gratitude. Then another guardsman, then another, then another until it was going all around. The innkeeper even had to start transferring funds to the sujamma merchant from before just to keep up with the orders. As Veleth said, no one had been lost today; what better reason to celebrate.

Eventually, Jordis decides to retire. Gregor knew this when Felwinter entered his room and greeted him with a small nod. The Nord had left half an hour earlier. His sword lay across his knees, a whetstone in his hand. He had stopped sharpening it a few minutes before, lost in his own haggard and fearful reflection. He wondered if his thane could see the way the blade trembled in his grip. The way his shoulders were hunched and tight.

“I’ve been meaning to get you a new one,” Felwinter told him quietly, “Armor too. Didn’t have the time before we left.”

Gregor just grunted. Sleepy and drained as he was, he did not trust his voice to not say something he could regret. Sleepier than thought, he guessed as he had only just now realized his thane was in his room. He begins to stand. “Apologies, thane. I didn’t realize I was to be in the other room.” He sounded as if he was reading from a letter.

“You’re not. We’re sharing.” Felwinter tossed his bag onto a desk against the wall and stretched with an exaggerated and obnoxious groan. He dropped down on the bed, hard enough to bounce slightly and began to tug at the laces of his shoes. “You were quiet tonight.”

Gregor remains still for a few seconds more before reminding himself that he should sit down again. The Nord lowered himself slowly and heavily, eyes never leaving Felwinter as the man ripped off his shoe and tossed it into a corner.

“Thane.”

“Gregor.”

Gregor sighed, “Do we have a plan for tomorrow? For how we will attack Fort Frostmoth?”

Big shoulders jumped in a shrug. “Still making one. I’m sure I’ll have one by the morning.”

“So we have no plan, none of the numbers needed and somehow, some way, we are supposed to take an occupied fortress from those occupying it and hold it?”

There was an edge in his voice that Felwinter could detect. It wasn’t very surprising. There was a reason he had chosen to share with him, though he did warn Gregor that he was a man that took some getting used to.

Felwinter countered growing frustration with coolness. “Why not?” he asked, “Not my most unfair match up.” He looks Gregor in the eye. “Doesn’t seem you’re handling this as well as it seemed.”

The Nord exhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. “Thane, before today...I had never even seen undead. Much less monsters like this.”

“None of us have seen monsters like these,” Felwinter reminds him, “But you have taken forts.”

“Aye, with a plan of attack. And three times the men!” He exhaled again and kept his eyes shut, “I did not mean to shout. Forgive me, thane.”

“For what?” Felwinter grinned and Gregor let his eyes open again. “I did tell you I would take some getting used to. As long as you’re smart, you listen and you keep your head about you, you’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.” The black gauntlet on his hand disappeared and the bare fingers scratched through the wiry black hair on his chin. “Jordis, Lydia, Argis, sure, they’re sick of my shit. But they’re all still here for a reason, despite having faced worse odds than this. It’s why Jordis isn’t nearly as worried about tomorrow as you think we should be.”

“And what is that reason, thane? Why do they stick around?”

“I take care of my people, Gregor. Always. If you remember anything about me, remember that.”The look in his dark brown eyes was the most serious Gregor had ever seen him.

The sincerity and surety with which Felwinter answered brought Gregor’s eyes back onto his. For the first time in hours, his lips began to quirk up into a small smile. “I suppose it would do me well to remember that I fight alongside the Dragonborn.” Felwinter gave an obnoxious smile, full of good humor and teeth. “Though, you do appear to have taken a few hits in your time.”

Felwinter’s bare hand immediately comes up to his left cheek, tracking the three grooves drawn into them. “Dragon fight,” he said, “Was protecting a friend.”

The hand falls down to the right side of his neck. “This was when I was betrayed by someone I thought an ally.”

Gregor’s eyes tightened in a wince. “Looks deep.”

“I barely survived.” The man shrugged again, “He didn’t, when I found him.”

“Where’s the body now?”

“Sliding through some slaughterfish’s intestines, I assume? Or serving as fertilizer for seaweed.”

A loud snort escapes Gregor’s nose before he can stop it. Felwinter only grins wider. “And this one?” Gregor asked, gesturing to his nose, “What of this one?”

The smile falters and starts to lower. “This was when I was a kid.” Gently, he takes hold of the bridge of his nose. “A ball got thrown through a window. The lord of the manor, some nobody looking to throw around what little weight he had, demanded the guards take me in.”

“But it was an accident…”

Felwinter snorts derisively. “It also wasn’t me. But the ‘Redguard’ _must_ have done it, so obviously it was me. They took me in and locked me within a dank cell for hours. I was seven. It was terrifying.”

Even as he spoke, Felwinter’s tone went lower and lower. “I begged them to let me go or at least, call my mother so she could clear things up. My face was pressed against the bars and one of them, a man taller than I am now, kneed me so hard in the face my nose burst. Hurt worse than anything I had felt before in my life and even some things after.”

“Gods, man…” Gregor could no longer hide his shock.

“Took my mother several-hour healing sessions, every day for two months to have it appear even semi-normal,” he continued, “It was to the point where I would find her sick from exhaustion afterwards and even then…” The man took in a lungful of air, sealed his mouth and breathed out through his nose. Just barely, Gregor could hear faint, faint whistling. “Doesn’t happen often but it happens.”

“Does it still hurt?”

Felwinter shook his head. “No, stopped doing that a while back, years after it happened.” He sighed, absent-mindedly but through the nose again. Gregor could hear the whistle. “But I suppose I should be grateful,” he said. “The look in that guard’s eye. He wanted to do so much more than one simple hit. He enjoyed my pain. He liked that a helpless child was afraid of him.”

“Sounds like a man who not many people are afraid of,” Gregor noted, “Or have any respect for. And I see why. Who puts their hands on a child like that?”

“You’d be surprised.” Felwinter began to divest himself of his shirt, tossing it away onto a chair once it was off and flopping down on his bed with a content sigh. Gregor slowly and silently followed suit, pulling off his shirt and boots before moving himself underneath the covers. The candles snuffed themselves out as soon as he was finished, leaving them both in the pitch dark.

Gregor asks, “Where is the guardsman now?”

He hears Felwinter scratch some part of his body, in thought. “He enjoyed my fear,” he said again, “And then someone else enjoyed his, I’m sure of it.”

Gregor shifts to look at him in the dark. “Was he...did you…”

Felwinter laughs at him. “Gregor, I was still a child.”

“Ah.” He huffs out a laugh. “Alright.”

A beat of silence passed.

“But my mother wasn’t.”

Gregor shifts again and lets the silence carry on, leaving that last sentence and all its implications in the air. Felwinter breaks it again. “I’ll bring in extra help tomorrow, Gregor. It won’t just be the three of us, I’ll make sure of it.” Felwinter yawned loudly, then said, “Rest easy Gregor. We’ll get through this alive. All of us.”

Gregor’s eyes stay on the dark figure laying across the room and bit by bit, he feels the tension leave him, from his shoulders to his neck to his fingers.

“Alright,” he says, “Alright. I trust you, thane.”

* * *

Sudden but soft noise wakes him. Surprising, given how deep of a slumber he had been shaken from. For moments after waking, he forgets where he is.

The soft bed and large room bring it back to him. He was in his mother's childhood home, a room she outfitted just for him. Someone else had lived in it, Felwinter could tell by the old tomes and papers but she would never tell him who. Whoever they were, they were never here anyway.

He slid out and padded his way to the door, rubbing his eye with a fist while the other hand was outstretched ahead of him, feeling his way in the dark. When he could feel the cool wood of the door and the cold knob, he turned it and pulled, looking both ways down the hall. He searched for figures, tall silhouettes in the dark. He almost expects to see Lord Lucius walking them.

Grandfather was not here, he reminds himself. Away on business in Camlorn. Instinctively, he rubbed his cheek, recalling the times he made the mistake of calling him 'grandfather' in his presence. Then he rubbed his nose and winced when it stung.

There was no one. Felwinter made his way to the top of the stairs, too afraid of being caught to make a light. He took hold of the railing with both hands and started downwards, where he could now hear voices coming from one of the smaller, less ornate drawing rooms in Dragon's Ascent. One where less important guests were received. There was light emanating from the cracks in and around the closed door. A small amount but Felwinter had learned from experience that it was enough for him to peek through for times when curiosity took hold of him. Times like right now. He tiptoes to the crack, drops gently to his knees and peers through.

He has to stop himself from letting out a growl of frustration. Some guardsman's ass was in the way. But he could hear his mother speaking, as well as another person. A man. He can just barely make out what is being said but the man's voice sounds panicked, desperate. The other, his mother, was as cool and quiet as always.

There was another sound. A third voice. He couldn't hear it under the talking and he definitely couldn't see it. All he could tell was that he didn't recognize it and that something was wrong with it.

" _What if you're caught?_ " The man demands of his mother, " _What if the authorities find out?"_

" _I suspect they will be angry."_

" _And if they come after you?"_

" _If they choose retaliation over feeding their families on the coin the Drakon family provides, then I doubt they will be missed._ "

The guardsman before the door shifted in stance, making Felwinter jump slightly.

" _What of his family?_ "

" _He has no family. Mother's dead, father long gone,_ " she said, _"No wife to greet him when he returns home, no husband to hold him at night. No children…"_ Movement, a pained grunt, then his mother's voice in an even lower and more threatening tone. " _No one to mourn him_."

The guardsman shifts again and Felwinter consciously keeps himself from springing away from the door in panic. This time, he was moving out of the way, allowing Felwinter to see who she was speaking about. His eyes had just moments to focus on the figure at the center of the room and even less time to comprehend what he was seeing before a massive hand suddenly wrapped around his mouth and tore him away from the door. His struggling was put down as soon as it began by another arm wrapping around his torso and lifting him.

Felwinter was bodily carried away from the closed room. At the foot of the stairs, the grip loosened just slightly. Felwinter tore himself away and turned to face his captor.

"Ser Castel, I…" the beast of a man who served as the Dragon's Ascent master-at-arms, clad in armor heavier than three of Felwinter, stared back down. The blank look on his weathered face did more to take the wind from his sails than anger or annoyance did. Felwinter couldn't hold his gaze and so, lowered it. "I heard a noise," he mumbled. His gaze came up and returned to the door. He remembered those icy, blue eyes. His breathing became labored. His nose started to sting.

" _Why is he here_?" he seethed.

The knight followed his eyes to the drawing room. Then, in that deep, rumbling voice of his, he simply answered, "Honor demands."

Felwinter looked between the door and Castel, over and over. Ser Castel stepped forward and waved him up the stairs. A firm but silent reminder that Felwinter had training in the morning and lessons after. This would not be an excuse if he was late.

Felwinter reluctantly obeyed, taking each step one at a time while Ser Castel watched him go.

He wished he could go back. Even with the knight's words, he struggled to believe it was the same man as before. The anger was gone, the burning coldness, like hard ice pressed to your skin, was gone. The malice was gone.

All that was left was fear; fear and pain deeper than any he had been made to feel that day. His nose still hurt. He still distrusted guards. He still feared that jail and through it all, those blue eyes permeated everything.

He wished he could go back. Honor demanded and somewhere, deep down in a place he did not recognize, Felwinter wanted to enjoy.


	4. Fort Frostmoth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update but in my defense, I work a full time epidemiology job in a covid red zone so...

He didn’t see the sun rise whenever it did. It didn’t matter, Gregor had already been awake for some time. It was a marvel he was able to keep himself confined to his bed, rather than pacing the grounds or heaving his dinner into the nearest bucket. This wasn’t clearing out a bandit fort, going in with superior numbers, arms and armor. The sides had switched; now he had the lesser numbers, a simple sword and shield, a vulnerable human body and he was going against monsters, creatures out of tales meant to frighten children.

What was worse was how alone he felt. Jordis was calm about the entire thing but his thane was without a care in the world, arm hanging off the bed, mouth slightly open, sleeping as if the next day was as simple as a trip to the market. None of them felt how he did. Maybe it should have relieved him but it didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to let it.

Gregor rolled out of bed, waiting for his bare feet to adjust to the stone before rising and walking over to the washbasin. He cleaned up as quietly as he could manage, spending just a few extra moments to throw more of the cool water against his face. It didn’t help.

His armor was still set off to where he had put it. He starts with the greaves and slowly, maybe more so than normal, he moves up, checking and double-checking every strap, every buckle and every clasp to ensure it would remain in place. He twists one arm, then the other, then at the waist. He brings his knees up again and again, both checking that he can move properly and trying in any small way he could to release the pit digging into his belly.

His blade was all that remained. Gregor lifted it, took hold of the hilt and pulled it out just slightly. A simple thing of steel; he remembered his thane’s promise of a better one. Maybe he’d hold the man to it. If Felwinter actually managed what he had said the night before, maybe he wouldn’t. For now, it would serve. He sheathed it again and went over from his bed to a quiet corner of the room. Gregor lowered himself to both of his knees and laid the blade across them. He closed his eyes, relaxing his shoulders, unclenching his jaw and breathed in deeply before breathing out just as much so.

And he prayed. For strength to be given to his arms, so that his blade strikes true and his shield never wavers. He prayed for the courage he couldn’t muster himself, fortitude so that he may protect those he was charged with protecting, their blessing so that they may all return victorious and if not, that they deem him worthy of the afterlife he craved.

The silence of his breathing was interrupted by the sound of something tumbling to the floor, followed by a curse and a grunt. Gregor turns to find Felwinter pushing himself to his feet after having fallen. Rubbing his back and grumbling his good mornings, the man dragged his feet and waddled over to the washbasin. He tied the strings at the waist of his pants before dipping the hand that had been holding them on his waist into the water. “You praying?” he asked.

Gregor had turned back to the corner. “Nearly done,” he answers.

Taking hold of the sides of the barrel, Felwinter dumped his head and after half a minute of bubbling, pulled it out again. “Take your time,” he gasped, sputtering and rubbing water from his eyes. “Eight Divines. Lots of things to pray to.”

Gregor sighed, “Nine, my thane.”

There was a pause. Slight, but it was there. “Nine, huh?”

“Aye. Just like my father and his own.”

Gregor knew of the man’s loyalties, so his thane’s noncommittal hum surprised him somewhat. “We don’t have the Nine in High Rock. Just the Eight.”

“It angers the Thalmor.”

A derisive snort. “I’d start praying to the Nine, if just to piss off the Thalmor. Not like they’d do a damn thing about it.”

The humming Gregor had quickly come to associate with magic came out behind him. When he turned again, Felwinter was in full, black, heavy plate armor, stretching in it to make sure he moved properly while wearing it. Gregor removed the blade from his knees and stood, tying it to his side. Felwinter was already striding out of the room. Gregor followed much more slowly, giving the place one last look before reaching in and bringing the door to close.

Breakfast was silent. Few were awake at this time and the anticipation of battle was too much, even for Felwinter and Jordis, for the easy conversation of last night. Still, Gregor noticed, neither looked particularly worried. From the looks Felwinter kept shooting his way, out of the corner of his eye, he must have been radiating it. He hoped to each and every god he wouldn’t see fit to remove him from this fight. The shame of it; an Ash Spawn’s blade would be preferable.

The meal was small and to the tastes of a man who had never left the Pale before now, rather strange. But it was satisfying, arguably the only thing this morning that has succeeded in calming his nerves. When Felwinter pushed his plate to the center and stood, Gregor knew it was time to go. He led them outside, through the town, past the damage of yesterday and to the gates. There, they could see Captain Veleth waiting with horses at his side. “I guessed it was time,” he said in greeting.

“You guessed right.”

Veleth patted the flank of one of the horses. “A gift, from the First and Second Councilors, ser. They, and all of Raven Rock, wish you fortune in the battle to come.”

“Gregor, Jordis, take your pick. Thank you, Captain,” he said, “But we only need the two.”

The Mer’s brow furrowed. “What will you do for your own mount?”

Felwinter’s response was to take in a deep breath and bellow out, “ _Arvak_!”

The humming returned, followed by a snap of cold heat in the air. Only Jordis didn’t seem surprised to see what materialized in the air some distance away and came galloping towards them. It was a horse, Gregor was sure, but it was a thing of pure bone and blazing, violet fire in place of skin and sinew. It paid none of them any attention, stopping in its stride right at Felwinter, rubbing the lips it no longer had against the hand he held out.

The Captain's eyebrows remained against his hairline. “Have you met the wizard, Neloth? I think you two would get along.”

A saddle appeared in Felwinter’s arms, efficiently strapped on. “I have met a Dunmer wizard.” He climbed on and properly situated himself. “If it was indeed Neloth, then I doubt that. Highly.”

A rare smile drew on Veleth’s mouth. “Yes, that is the rumor.” He watched the trio mount and settle themselves, then with one last nod, he watched them move off, through the gate and down the path.

* * *

Their journey was slow but steady, none of the horses moving faster than a gentle stride. As silent as their meal before, until Felwinter began to speak. “We’re getting close so listen up and listen well,” he commanded, “The Ash Spawn are a form of undead. They move with purpose so we know someone is reanimating and controlling them, as undead rarely do anything without direction. Necromancy, like the rest of Conjuration magic, creates an aetherial link between the caster...” He tapped his chest, then moved the hand to the fiery horse beneath him, “And the creatures they summon. No link, no creature. That’s why it's best for them to overrun the battlefield with their minions. Kill the caster…”

“And there is nothing left binding the summoned to this world,” Jordis finished, her eyes on the horizon.

Gregor turned to both of them. “So they’ll all just...drop dead? That simple?”

“That’s the theory,” Felwinter said.

“So we won’t be fighting all of the Ash Spawn then. Just enough to get inside and find the caster.”

“That is still quite a lot of Ash Spawn,” Jordis reminded.

Gregor grit his teeth, silently conceding that point. “The help you mentioned, thane. They will be there?”

“That’s right. Veleth didn’t give much on the interior so I assume we’ll be searching for Carius for a while. If we’re lucky, he’ll come to meet us first.”

They continued down the trail in silence for some time before Gregor began to notice the hard-packed sand beneath their mounts’ feet loosening. They were closing in. “ When we do find him,” Felwinter spoke up again, “Your job will be to keep the Spawn he’ll have with him off of me. I’ll take Carius alone. I want to incapacitate him without killing him and use his link to trace back to the caster.”

“Do you believe it's those cultists?”

Felwinter sighed. “Maybe, Jordis. Could also be who started the cult. Or at least who runs it. Regardless, whatever’s in Falx’s head is our biggest clue. So we ask...then we take the head.” Arvak stopped. Felwinter raised his hand to signal to them to do the same. “Dismount here,” he ordered, sliding off. Arvak faded away in a gout of flame almost immediately. When the housecarls had done so, Felwinter took the reins of both horses and moved them to a tree, fastening them to the trunk. He leads them on foot the rest of the way, towards a sandy hill he then has them crest until their target comes into view.

Fort Frostmoth was impressive in both structure and the state of its disrepair. Most of the low towers had crumbled into ruin, with no gateways or palisades for defense. Ash Spawn shambled all across the grounds, much more than any of them had ever seen.

“I know we’re not sneaking past,” Jordis said, her voice dropped into a whisper, “And I see no point in prolonging the wait. How are we going in?”

“Thane…” Gregor’s eyes were on the hills on the other side of the fort, “I don’t see your men.” He looked over at Felwinter to see him rising to his feet at the top of the hill. “Thane? Reinforcements?”

“You said you trusted me, Gregor.” Felwinter’s tone had gone low and deep. The long dragonbone sword appeared in his grip in a snap of magic. “Bad time to stop, isn’t it?” He pointed the blade towards the crest of another sandy mound. “Move there.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was time. Jordis unstrapped her shield while Gregor drew his blade. Together and keeping low, they moved, Felwinter watching both them and the spawn to ensure they were not noticed while flanking the Spawn.

His next order came soon after and it wasn’t with words. Felwinter jabbed the blade down into the sand. With both hands free, strands of lightning began to dance around his frame, the hum of magic going from a sound to something Gregor, Jordis and indeed, every Spawn in the vicinity, could feel through the air.

Felwinter wasted no time. Thick bolts of violet energy crossed the distance between the top of the hill and the ground in the time it took Gregor to blink. They struck at the Spawns’ feet, raising a spout of sand. At the height of the spout, they could see severed arms and legs careening through the air.

“Move in!” Felwinter shouted, “Take them!” He ripped the sword from the sand and jumped off the crest, sliding down and bringing his sword up in an arc that took the sword arm of the first Spawn to reach him. He shouldered the dismembered monster, knocking it flat onto its back and bringing his foot down on its head, spraying hot ash and dust across the ground. The purple shield of his other arm appeared just in time for him to turn and stop a blast of flame aimed at his back. He charged through the gout, throwing the shield forward and cracking the creature across the head. Zazikel found its heart before it could recover. Felwinter pushed it deeper and with a heave of muscle, ripped it upwards, slicing the Spawn open from the chest to the crown of its head.

Even more Spawn were coming, clambering out of the ground and seemingly manifesting out of nowhere. Gregor hurriedly cut his way to reach and remain close to his Thane, running a Spawn through when it attempted to flank Jordis. She responded by ripping her blade out of the back of her downed opponent, darting forward and past him and burying her blade again into another Spawn’s gaping mouth as it tried to get him from behind.

The three remained close, surrounded, but gave each other the space they needed. More accurately, Felwinter kept close so he could intervene if necessary but far enough away so that he could cast his spells without worry of collateral. With their enemies’ numbers, the fight was soon becoming a test of endurance. For every one of the Spawn that were cut down, crushed to dust, sliced in half and blasted into flailing pieces, two more would rush them like madmen and that number only seemed to increase as time passed.

A Spawn’s blade, just narrowly avoided, still drew a thin line of red across the small bit of exposed skin on his arm. It was instinct that told Gregor to put up his shield instead of retaliating and the cone of flame that followed the strike made him glad for having listened to it.

A streak of violet flashed before his squinting eyes and then the flames stopped. The Ash Spawn’s outstretched arm stayed so as it fell to the ground. Felwinter came flying out of the corner of his eye at a speed that couldn’t be described as human. He didn’t stop either, throwing Zazikel out in a vicious arc and sending the creature’s head spiraling into the air.

Gregor took up his stance again, back to back with his comrades, his chest and shoulders rising and falling heavily. “Thane…” He called, unable to hide his growing exhaustion. “Thane, I’m still trusting you.”

The other man was huffing and sweating just as much, only he was smiling. “Right, right. Reinforcements.” His eyes turned towards the hills. “Right.” He said again.

His weapon disappeared. Felwinter spun around towards the space near one particularly tall mound of sand, kept open as a means of escape should it become necessary. “Wait till I disappear over the top of that hill.” He pointed and then twisted around to blow an incoming Spawn clean in half. “Count to ten and then draw the Spawn towards me.”

He turned and began to climb, feet kicking up to push himself through the sand. “When you get to the side, throw yourselves out of the center, do you understand?”

Gregor was failing to do so. What sort of reinforcements required this? But the man was already disappearing. Gregor turned back towards the Spawn closing in on them. And the ones near the door. And those still lining the destroyed battlements. Gregor adjusted and readjusted his grip, struggled to keep his breathing even as the gravity of their situation began to bear down on him.

“Five!” Jordis counted, her blade, shield and eyes still facing forward, even as Gregor’s disappearing conviction made his shoulders drop and the sword lower. “Four! Three! Two!” The pair twisted at the same time. The Ash Spawn stumbled but predictably gave chase up the hill of sand, clambering over each other to reach them.

The sand loosened underneath Jordis’ feet, making her slip to her knee with a yell. Despite his fears, Gregor doubled back, cutting off the arm of the one closest to grabbing her and hauling her to her feet.

“Almost,” he heaved out. The hill seemed so much bigger than before. “Almost…”

Gregor twisted and kicked at a Spawn clawing at his heels. Desperation drove his strength and the monster’s head and neck went snapping back. Still, he climbed. After what seemed like the entirety of his life, he reached the head. Immediately, he began searching for his thane.

He never saw him. The entirety of his life was flashing too quickly and too vividly before his eyes to notice anything else. Even when taking in the sight before him, his thane’s last and most vital command rang through his head, shrill and insurmountably vital.

_Jump away._

Gregor bodily threw himself left. Jordis went right. A booming voice shook the world and a thunderous stream of absolute _cold_ lanced through the spot where they had been standing. Waves of frost ripped through the sandy ground and the Spawn along with it, sending frozen bits of undead high into the air and shattering them across the ground.

The dragon at the bottom of the hill threw back its wings and roared, shaking the ground beneath their feet and rattling Gregor down to his very bones. It was a pale, sickly green thing, with small holes in the wings it beat to take off into the air. Gregor pulled his hands from his ears and picked up his dropped blade, watching slack-jawed as a real, true-as-anything _dragon_ rose higher and higher. Sailing far over them and the fort, when it glided over the battlements, blasts of fire flew past and around it. The monster opened its mouth and bathed the stone and its occupants in another skin-tingling stream of ice.

Ash Spawn died by the dozens. Approaching footsteps did not pull Gregor from his trance so Felwinter resorted to grabbing him and hauling him to his feet. “Move! Quickly!” He ordered, shoving the Nord towards the door.

They moved. Only running, ignoring all the Spawn between them and the entrance. The ones that wouldn’t be ignored were knocked to the side or blasted down from above. Reaching the door, Felwinter shouldered it open and waved the two of them inside. Gregor only had one more chance to take in everything that had just occurred outside before Felwinter shoved the door close, dimming the sounds of slaughter and leaving their breathing as the loudest things in their ears.

“Anyone hurt? Need healing?” Even before responding, Gregor could feel some semblance of his strength returning. Felwinter pushed off the wall with a grunt, bracing against it when the Dragon passed overhead, making the fort shake. His other hand clapped Gregor on the shoulder. “How was that for reinforcements? To your standards?” He cackled, slapping his shoulder again. “Come on! Carius is waiting.”

He started down the cobweb-laden, disrepaired hall and Gregor had to remind his feet to start following. “Thane…who…what was that?!” Gregor instinctively ducked when another roar echoed over their heads, the ceiling showering them in dust.

“A distraction. We should have Carius to ourselves now.” Felwinter pushed open a door and peeked before going all the way through.

“I expected something ridiculous,” Jordis said, bringing up their rear, “But a warning would have been nice.”

“You ruin surprises, this one nearly coughs up his own heart. You people are no fun.” Felwinter peeked into another room before moving on. “We can all talk after this. Let’s focus on the general for now.”

Felwinter pushed his way through another door before pausing and asking himself under his breath, “What am I doing?”

He took in a lungful and Shouted, “ _LAAS YAH NIR.”_ Felwinter’s eyes went wide and unblinking, flitting quickly from door to door and towards every wall, as if searching through them. His head flicked towards the one directly ahead and stopped. His eyes narrowed. “There.”

Zazikel reappeared in his hand. Jordis and Gregor readied themselves. Again, Felwinter’s dragon roared overhead.

He cautiously approached the door, his magic shield forward, up and illuminating the halls. His housecarls moved to the sides of the door and waited as Felwinter pressed himself against it, ear to the wood.

Then he knocked. Twice. Gregor’s shoulders went slack with disbelief. Jordis just rolled her eyes.

Nothing happened. No sound of speech or movement came through as a response. Gregor was readying himself again, preparing to push his way through behind his thane.

Instead, his thane ducked. The top half of the door exploded, showering them in sharp, smoking splinters of wood. The damage stopped just above the very top of Felwinter’s head, close enough that the man felt the need to check his hair for any damage. Then, he peeked over.

The man standing on the far side of the large room was clad in heavy, Legion armor that looked as old as the fort itself. Flanking him were two large Ash Spawn, bearing Blades as tall as they were. In the General’s own hand was a tall and heavy hammer, its head pointed at the door and smoking.

When General Falx spoke, the most unsettling thing about it was that he could. His eyes were dim red embers like his Spawn and molten fire ran like cracks up and down his face and neck. Falx Carius looked only slightly more human than his soldiers but spoke all the same.

“I attempted to talk.” His voice carried through the halls, “I offered peace! But you would not heed my words. Now, heed my warning.

Felwinter pushed open the ruined door and stepped through, his shield up. “And ah, what warning would that be?” He asked.

Falx’s grip tightened on the hammer. “Make your peace!” He bellowed, “Make your peace and make it now!”

The Spawn at his back roared and both broke into a mad dash for the trio. Felwinter did the same, bolting straight down towards the shrinking space in between the incoming Ash Spawn. With a yell, Felwinter managed to bodily throw himself through and kick himself back up to his feet.

One of the Spawn turned on him and reached out before stopping just as suddenly. Its head fell down to its chest, taking in the sight of a sword poking through its sternum.

Jordis ripped her blade from its abdomen and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the Spawn’s own heavy blade as it turned its attention away from her thane to face her. The other needed no such distraction. It roared at Gregor and Gregor, sweating from the heat and exertion, swallowed, then roared right back.

As soon as Felwinter was close enough, Carius brought the hammer around in an arc that would have knocked Felwinter’s arm out of place if he had chosen to block it. Instead, he moved to avoid, quickly bringing his weapon up towards Carius’ back. But the corpse was faster than he appeared, spinning around to block the strike with the thick wooden handle and force Felwinter back on his heels. Felwinter moved back just a bit further, putting more distance between the two. He was stronger than he looked too.

When Carius moved to close the space again, jabbing the hammer’s head out, Felwinter caught it on the flat end of his blade. It slid roughly off and using the lack of resistance, Felwinter moved closer, bringing the handle of his sword with him and jabbing it forward.

The blow connected and sent Carius staggering. Felwinter watched him as his hands stayed on his nose. He took notice of the fact that Carius still felt pain or more likely, reacted as if he did. It was the most human he had seen any of these Spawn act since arriving in Solstheim. But then Carius lashed out at a pillar with his weapon in anger, taking out a good chunk of the stone and Felwinter had to remind himself it was only an act.

Falx Carius charged forward again and again, Felwinter moved to avoid the impending blow. Carius kept his hammer and arms outstretched, following Felwinter where he had dodged and forcing him to dodge again, giving him no time to breathe. The third return strike came for the side of his head and would have reduced it to bits of meat and bone had Felwinter not ducked underneath it. Even then, he could still feel the wind of it but the move brought him low enough that he could put a palm to Carius’ chest and let out a pulsewave of magic. The Imperial went sliding back, crouching down and digging his fingers into the sand to stop.

He righted himself almost immediately and charged again, ever on the offensive. Felwinter hadn’t even realized the magic had suddenly built up in the air when Carius was raising his hammer and bringing it down hard. But when he did, every thought in his head ceased to speak save one; _move_. So he did, spinning away from the path of the hammer’s descent. The lightning-laden strike buried itself where Felwinter had just been standing and left a deep crater in the ground, red and smoking.

Keeping it connected to the floor, Carius switched his grip on the handle. Felwinter felt the magic in the air shift again and when Carius took several steps forward and began to drag his hammer behind him, Felwinter could see the line of frost developing on the floor behind it. Carius threw the hammer forward across the stone with a yell. The frost deepened and grew until a fast-moving stream of icy spears crawled across the ground towards his opponent.

In his free hand, Felwinter gathered fire and slammed it against the ground, disrupting whatever attack Carius had cast before it could make contact. He brought up his other hand and called fire again, sending a large wave of it towards Carius, who brought up his hammer and braced. The flames rocked him but flowed around, the head of his hammer, now glowing red-hot, pushed Felwinter’s magic away from its target.

Now Felwinter rushed forward, thrusting his sword out and catching the warhammer’s handle. Carius twisted with the handle, parrying Felwinter’s strike before returning one of his own, only to find it avoided entirely. The back and forth continued, striking and returning, parrying and avoiding, both pressing any little advantage they could find and waiting for the other to make a dire mistake.

It was Felwinter who made it. He underestimated the force of a return strike and chose to parry rather than avoid, so when Carius pressed further into the attack, Zazikel was sent flying across the room, ripped from Felwinter’s hand, with little space to run for it or to even call it back.

Felwinter supposed he should’ve been impressed. Carius was proving himself to be his better at weapons combat, so much so that he found himself abandoning his plans to restrain and subdue the creature. He fell back on his magic, better in it than he ever was with a blade. He sent out another wave of fire, sliding across the ground and just as before, Carius braced with his hammer. The bolt of lightning he sent out next, Carius dodged, the strike cracking stone on the wall behind him.

Felwinter brought back both his hands and began to charge up as much shock magic as he could manage, running forward at the same time. Carius rushed to meet him, hammerhead glowing bright violet and at the ready.

Felwinter could feel the resistance before the two of them ever collided. The magic of the hammer pushed violently against Felwinter’s own, like magnets being forced together.

The result of contact was predictable. Lightning burst between them and sent both fighters sailing back through the air, kicking up a cloud of obscuring dust in their wake. Felwinter fell out of sight. Carius slammed back-first into a pillar near the entrance, hard enough to shift it out of place. He shook his head clear and scrambled for his hammer on the ground, staring through the roiling cloud of dust and sand, searching for the Dragonborn.

A yell from behind tore his eyes away. They landed on a burly, shaved-head Nord, slicing at the leg of one of his personal guard. When the guard stumbled, the Nord jumped up and forward with a deep yell, bringing down his blade and burying it in his head.

Carius watched only long enough to see the sword drop limply from his soldier’s hand before a roar tore its way from his lips. The sound had the Nord’s wide-blown eyes flitting towards him and his shield at the ready for Carius impending charge.

Charge, Carius did, a roar still on his lips and magic filling his weapon. But then the world boomed. Then the world shifted and Carius found himself stopped in his tracks.

Felwinter stood in the space between the two, his eyes wide and his pupils small. The blade that had been knocked from his hand found purchase in Carius’ throat and Felwinter only pushed deeper, the tip exiting the other side.

With a sudden yell of his own, Felwinter ripped Zazikel free, tearing a ragged hole. Then, drawing in a chestful of air, the Dragonborn Shouted, “ _FUS RO DAH!”_

Only Carius’ hammer went flying. General Carius himself exploded, dissolving into a thick, grey cloud of dust and ash and smoke. The only solid remains, a strange stone, red and pulsating, fell to the ground, tapping once against the floor before dissolving into nothing itself.

The room fell quiet, deafeningly so. As soon as Gregor took in Felwinter’s relaxing stance and lowering shoulders, he let out a weak groan, dropping to his flank. His sword and shield were deposited at the sides of him so that he could wipe the sweat away from his eyes with both hands. It was over. It was over.

Jordis was over him with a hand outstretched when his eyes opened again. He took it and accepted her help getting back to his feet. “It gets easier,” she told him.

Gregor let out a tired laugh. “Does it? Does it really?”

“Well, no. You just get used to it.”

“Fight’s done, people. You know the drill.” Felwinter was already halfway across the room. “You kill the owner, you keep the stuff. Anything you don’t want, put away so we can sell.” He reached the other side of the room and began sifting through the rubble, heaving away stone and digging through sand until Carius’ hammer revealed itself.

“Alone at last,” he muttered, a wild grin growing on his face. Zazikel remained unenchanted and as mundane as a sword crafted from the corpses of dragons and the lifeblood of a god could be. Carius’ cudgel coursed with power and now, it could be put to more…creative use. The markings on his arm began to shine. As soon as he had the weapons handle in his grip, they began to move, crawling down his arm and over the hammer. Then they disappeared.

Felwinter brought the heavy thing up as he rose back to his full height, examining the design, admiring the quality. Then he looked at Gregor. “Think fast.”

The hammer was tossed up and towards the Nord’s head. It never made it half way. In a blink of light, the cudgel disappeared, reappearing in Felwinter’s grip, as if he had never thrown it.

“He loves that little trick,” Jordis mumbled.

“I do. I do love that little trick.” The hammer disappeared again, to where ever any of his things magically went. “Wrap up and meet me outside. I want to see the dragon off.”

Gregor rushed to join him, still doubting his eyes, his ears and the shaking of the walls. But as soon as Felwinter pushed his way through the entrance, his doubts were summarily removed. Because there it was, still roaring and flying through the sky. Its massive, horned head turned towards them and for a second, it seemed as if the dragon was beginning to turn. But in a flash of light and crack of thunder, the beast glowed a dim purple and then faded out of sight, its roars just an echo left in their ears.

“His name is Durnehviir,” Felwinter explained, beckoning the two of them to follow him back up the path they came from. “He resides in the Soul Cairn. I can call on him when I need him but he can never stay for too long.” Felwinter let out that strange Shout from before and again his eyes went wide. “Your horses are still here.” He blinked. “That’s good. Was worried the dragon scared them off. Arvak!”

Felwinter’s fiery steed from before shimmered into view and came trotting forward. “Another resident of the Cairn. Used to have to cast a spell to call him but it seems he’s taken enough of a liking to me to come when called.” The saddle appeared in Felwinter’s arms. “Mount up, people. Drinks are on me.”

Jordis untied her own from the tree and climbed up with a grunt. “They’re always on you, thane.” She directed the horse to turn around.

“Which is very funny because I know I pay all of you enough to pick up the tab at least once. Amazingly, you never do!”

Gregor crowed, “Aye, but it’s part of our contract, thane. Room, board, meals-”

“Board and meals are the same thing.”

Gregor cocked a brow. “Really? Huh. Either way, all your responsibility.” The battle had barely ended an hour ago but when he heard Gregor laugh and talk, animated and smiling and relaxed, Felwinter felt as if he were speaking to a different man. Then again, this change was nothing unfamiliar. He saw it in Whiterun’s guards after the defeat of Mirmulnir. He saw it in Lydia after they escaped Windcaller’s tomb. Argis got himself good and horribly drunk after braving a Reachman stronghold to rescue a little girl. Felwinter even learned more about Jordis in the night after they put the Wolf Queen back to rest than he did in the weeks before. Facing the most overwhelming of odds was a good way to make one more excited for life and living. Helgen taught him many things, like how vividly one can recall even the shortest moments of their past and that ‘seeing your life flash before your eyes’ was more than just a saying; it also taught him that.

“I’ve heard rumors, thane,” Gregor said, “But I never thought them true. That you command dragons.”

“No one commands a dragon.” Felwinter said, absent-mindedly running his fingers through Arvak’s flames, “After Durnehviir tried to kill me..and I returned the favor with a bit more success, he and I came to an understanding. He taught me the Shout needed to summon him to this world, so he can fly the skies of Tamriel again and in return, he aids me in battle whenever I need him to.”

“Do you need him often?”

“No, but sometimes, I’ll pull him out anyway. Few tools are as effective as terror. A lot of Stormcloaks would’ve died fighting in Windhelm if I hadn’t scared them into laying down their arms.”

Jordis listened but kept her gaze forward, on the approaching gate of Raven Rock. Then her eyes flit up. “Thane…”

“Can’t say I blame them. Staring down that thing’s maw was probably the most terrifying moment of my life.”

“Gregor? Thane?”

“Careful, old man. I might take that as a challenge.”

Now Jordis was stopping. “Gregor! Thane!”

Both men turned. Then they followed her eyes.

Thick plumes of smoke wafted up over Raven Rock’s high walls. Its heavy gate of iron bars had been knocked out of place and the trail leading inwards, they could see as they cautiously approached, was covered all over with soot and still burning flames.

And bodies. None of them moving.

Felwinter spurred Arvak into a gallop. At the entrance, he was dismounting before Arvak had come to a complete stop in front of the body of a guardsman slumped against the wall. The Dunmer’s helmet had been taken off and his hand was clutching his side. Tightly, so there was a chance he was still alive. Felwinter’s suspicions were confirmed when the guard reacted at the sound of his footsteps, flinching towards his weapon.

Felwinter squats down and takes the Dunmer’s hand from his ribs, replacing it with his own, pouring magic into the wound. “What happened here?”

“The Spawn,” he seethed through gritted teeth, “They attacked us again. A force larger than any before.” He paused to inhale a painful breath. “They broke our defenses. Attacked the town.”

“Jordis!” Felwinter pulled back his hand. “I’ve done what I could. Help him over to a healer but tell them his injuries aren’t life-threatening. I don’t want them pulled from others who might need them.” Felwinter turned his attention back towards the town. “I need to look for Veleth.”

He did not have to look far. Veleth was right at the center of town, overseeing damage control and dealing with an irate and clearly terrified Second Councilor. Arano leaves as Felwinter arrives, not even sparing the Dragonborn a look of acknowledgement. Captain Veleth is filthy and haggard, his arms and fingers adorned in new bandages. Still, he stands tall and barks his commands like a man fresh from a night’s sleep.

His gaze turns to Felwinter. “General Carius?”

“Dead. Along with most of his Ash Spawn.”

The man looked more impressed than relieved. “A relief to hear,” he says, “But regardless of how many you took down, enough hit us here to get inside and…” he gestured to the smoldering buildings and the people running back and forth with buckets of seawater, “Do some damage.”

He was grimacing. He was understating. Felwinter presses right to the point. “How many, Captain?”

“Six guards. Three civilians.” He betrayed no emotion but his words were clipped and his crimson eyes blazed with anger. “The Spawn fell to ash and dust some time before you arrived. Could it have been your doing?”

“Maybe. Kill the summoner and the summoned have nothing left to bind them to this world. They disappear. In the case of necromancy, the corpses fall dead again.”

“If that is indeed the case, then again and again, this town owes you,” he says, “Far beyond what I can give.” Veleth gestures to the inn. “The inn remains untouched. Many civilians were able to shelter there. Our First Councilor has promised to compensate Geldis Sadri for the amount of time you need to spend here. You won’t need to spend a septim out of your own pocket, friend.”

“Thank you,” Felwinter said, “But our plan remains the same. Find what we’re looking for and get out soon after.” He rubs the back of his neck with a still armored end. “To be quite honest, this was always a bad time. Left a lot of problems to fester back home. I’d like this done as quickly as possible.”

Veleth was staring at him, his brows tight with what came across as confusion. But then they rose in realization. “You don’t know, do you…”

Now it was Felwinter’s brow that tightened. “Don’t know what?”

Veleth said nothing. Just gestured towards the docks. Felwinter follows his arms to the ships. Then slowly, they rise into the air, just like the plumes of black smoke floating up, his pupils shrinking all the while.

“They wanted to keep us from escaping,” Veleth said about the burning ships. “None of them are capable of leaving port right now. They’d sink right to the bottom of the sea.”

The longer Felwinter stared unblinkingly at the ships, the more the air starts to tingle and Veleth could swear he smelled rain. But then Felwinter closes his eyes with a gentle sigh and the air returns to normal. “I’ll go see what healing I can do,” he muttered, “I’ll talk to my housecarls, see if they need a moment’s rest. If not, they can help you with whatever you need.”

* * *

The three retook the rooms they had before. As soon as their early dinner had finished, Gregor was in bed, catching up on sleep the morning’s apprehension had denied him.

Felwinter had stepped outside of the inn, taking a chair and his hip flask and placing it near a fire. He drank and watched the town return just barely back to life as night fell and the moons rose. People were leaving their homes again, checking every corner, jumping at every snapped twig or crack of the fire but here they were nevertheless; moving about, speaking, embracing, grieving. Felwinter knew none of the dead. Crescius and his wife spoke with their neighbor outside their home. Glover left his own home and approached him, bandage pressed against stitches on his temple and nearly draining Felwinter’s flask when he offered it.

Up, on the ridge in the distance, still stood the Earth Stone. And its workers. He was told that none of them even reacted when the Ash Spawn attacked. While the sun had still been up, Felwinter had seen a spot of the structure they were building around it, blackened by stray thrown fire. It had nearly struck one of the workers square in the back of the head. The woman hadn’t so much as flinched away from the impact or the explosion or the heat.

They were all lucky Carius had been killed before the Spawn could make it up to them. But the fact that they tried at all was nothing but disheartening. Carius and his Ash Spawn; they had nothing to do with the Earth Stone or those cultists. Someone else was at play and now, just as with the cultists and this ‘true Dragonborn’, Felwinter was no closer to discovering who they were.

He sighed again and took a deep pull, finishing off the last of the sujamma he had saved. Then he brought his hand up and wrapped it around the crystal tied to his neck, waiting for the connection to be established and for that familiar rumbling voice to come through and greet his ears.


	5. Served Cold

Ship repairs have been slow. Two weeks, two ridiculous weeks, Felwinter has spent on this island. Two weeks since he had seen his man, his kids. Two weeks every problem he left back on Skyrim has spent festering. He was in for a storm the second he stepped foot on to the port in Windhelm, he was sure of it.

Felwinter roughly yanked the heavy cloak from around his shoulders, just after putting it on, and willed it to disappear. So used to Skyrim’s cold, trying to dress the same on Solstheim just left him a sweaty, huffing mess minutes after doing so, even with the occasional ocean spray to the face. He was walking alone along the beach, making for the Earth Stone. He had been watching that damnable thing for the length of his entrapment and it confounded him. If there was magic like this, using an object to so capably compel such a large group of people and so fully, so completely, he had never heard of it.

Some, like that Dunmer wizard whose invitation to speak he hoped he would not have to accept, proved resistant. Most other Raven Rock settlers did not and neither Jordis nor Gregor were allowed within a hundred feet of the thing. Felwinter would move them out of the town if he could. A number of times he’s found Gregor staring at the Stone from as far away as the Retching Netch, with a look on his face that said he was considering walking over. When either Jordis or Felwinter recaptured his attention, the glaze would leave his eyes and he would continue on his business as normal, at least until he stopped to stare again.

None of it was a failure on his part, he was only human. Felwinter, however, was not. He’s the only person in the town who has proven himself to be entirely immune. With everything else, he wanted to take it as a clue as to its origins or some kind of lead. But part of him attributes that desire to desperation. Desperation, well-founded. More than once, he’s been woken by bad dreams in the dark of the night. More than once, he’s woken Moth. Yes, the doors are sealed. Yes, the wards are working. Yes, the children are in bed. No, Lydia and I have not seen anything out of the ordinary.

Maybe Felwinter had made enough noise on Solstheim to draw the cultists’ attention away from Skyrim. At the same time, maybe not. With all the protections he had set up for his family, who he had no doubts could defend themselves, things could still happen. A moment’s slip could cost even the best fighters the game. Felwinter has fought against plenty of warriors who outclassed him, many mages who dwarfed him in both raw power and skill. He’s still here, they’re not.

So lost in his head was he, Felwinter didn’t even notice when his feet stopped sinking into white sand and instead, tread across hard-packed dirt and stone. He regained awareness, coming to a stop just before the ring of water that surrounded the Earth Stone’s base. Around it, and him, people worked. It was all the same people; none of them had even pulled away to eat. Judging by the length of time they had been there, the magic must have been sustaining them. Otherwise, at least half of them would have dropped dead from exhaustion by now, creating concerns as to what the effect would be if he pulled them away and everything caught up with them. Whatever hunger, thirst, or exhaustion they felt, the compelled powered through.

Indeed, Felwinter could feel the tug on his mind, beckoning him forward, bade him pick up a hammer, and find purpose in toil and labor. Let his hands be idle no more. The pull was so strong up this close. Felwinter blinked at its efforts.

“Serah!” A voice called out. “Lord Felwinter!”

Felwinter grumbled deep in his throat, purely on instinct. Then he sighed. It was better than “Lord Drakon”. He turned to find the Second Councilor, standing alone at the very edge of town, his posture showcasing his absolute refusal to move any closer. Understandable. Felwinter moved away from the stone and started back down the path to meet him.

Arano’s eyes were on the Earth Stone. “Has Crescius spoken to you about these poor souls?” he asked when Felwinter was close enough. “Most of them were meant to mine for him, back when he had hoped the mine would be opened up again. Some even traveled here from Morrowind proper, built connections, sought a new life.”

“If I find the source, I’ll be sure to put an end to it once and for all,” Felwinter assured.

It was a weak one. Arano saw right through it. “And how close are you?”

Felwinter sighs again and looks back at the Stone. “Nowhere near.” He gestured back towards the town as prompting to move further in but Arano shook his head.

“No one is allowed this close to the stone and I...would like a measure of privacy,” he said. He tore his eyes away from the Earth Stone, with effort that did not look small. “It has been a long time coming and you’ll have to forgive me, considering the circumstances. Captain Veleth has informed me of your efforts in defeating the Ash Spawn that plagued our home. On behalf of the town, myself as Second Councilor as well as the First, we thank you.” Arano punctuated his sentence by bowing his head.

Felwinter very nearly takes it seriously. “On behalf of the first?” he repeated, “The First couldn’t be bothered?”

Arano rises again, expression carefully neutral. “He is a very busy man.”

“As am I. And yet in less than a week, I managed to save your little town, not once but twice,” he argued, “All I’ve gotten for my efforts is stuck here, no closer to solving the reason I had to come here in the first place.”

Second Councilor Arano would have been well within his rights to stop Felwinter in his tracks. To remind Felwinter that he involved himself in this affair and continued to do so, even with Captain Veleth’s attempts at pushback. Maybe he needed to fight the Ash Spawn to leave Raven Rock but did not need to investigate Attius Farms and he certainly did not need to assault Fort Frostmoth.

But Arano keeps silent and lets him vent his frustrations before asking, “Would you be willing to save us again?”

The question hangs in the air. The Second Councilor doesn’t give him time to respond anyway. He turns back towards the town and points at the gate leading outwards. He says, “Meet me there. An hour after dusk. I will explain further.” He turns back to look Felwinter in the eye, striking red boring into deep brown. “Please, ser. Do this one more thing for us and I will ensure every question you need answered is so.”

He bowed once more. Felwinter watched him leave and waited until he was out of sight before moving. He weaved his way through the town, its people still trying to regain some manner of normalcy weeks after the attack. He moved past Glover’s shop, conveying his greetings with little more than a nod and leaving the Breton to his work of forging what was needed for repairs. Jordis and Gregor had found a spot of their own at the top of a small hill at the back part of town, just above and behind the inn. The two sparred to stave off the boredom and the anxiety, practice blades borrowed from the guard.   
  


Not yet seen, Felwinter finds his own little perch and settles in for the show. Again, Gregor seemed even more relaxed than he had been coming in; sweaty and grinning. Felwinter watches as he pushes Jordis hard, backing her to the edge of their little makeshift ring, taking advantage of his greater height and the near forty pounds in weight he had over her.

Jordis was all too happy to do the same. She feinted left, darted right, and Gregor’s slight hesitation in the middle of shoving his bulk forward and left was all she needed. She shoulders him on his right side and sends him pitching forward. The Nord planted face-first in the sand and a foot to the back kept him pinned there.

Felwinter started applauding, finally drawing their attention. Jordis removes her foot and offers her hand for Gregor to take. She hauls him up, smirking just slightly at his surprised look when she manages to do so so easily. He takes a few seconds to knock the sand and dirt from his beard and lips before turning to Felwinter, arms outstretched. “Thane Felwinter, I trust we impress?”

Jordis is already shaking her head, pulling the waterskin from her mouth. “No, no, don’t encourage-”

Too late. He was enabled. “Lose the shirts!” Gregor laughs in surprise. Laughs harder at Jordis’ loud and exaggerated groan.

Then she asks. “Any updates? On...anything?”

Felwinter drops from his perch and joins the two. “Ship’s still deep in repair. Nothing around the Earth Stone has changed and from Veleth’s reports, Ash Spawn attacks have been few and far between,” he replied, “The attacks that do happen have been no trouble for the few patrols he’s sent out.” He steps past them for a moment, reaching for a shield that had been perched against a stump.

“That Dunmer. The Second Councilor, I saw you talking to him,” Gregor said.

Felwinter picks up the shield, examining it. “A sensitive matter he apparently needs my help with. Believes it involves the safety of Raven Rock but I doubt it's from Ash Spawn. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so secretive.” He points to the gate with his free hand. “I’m to meet him there after sunfall.”

Without warning, he turns and tosses the shield in his hand to Jordis. But she’s come to expect nonsense like that from him and grabs it out of the air easily. Gregor gets the second shield handed to him, lest he get himself brained. “Training’s not over.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jordis asked, strapping her own on.

“The cultists who attacked me were mages. Best to assume any others will be too. Since we’re stuck here, I might as well teach you the best way to handle them. To start, the basic form of holding is all well and good but it's not the most ideal when dealing with magic. Gregor, shield up.”

There was some confusion but little hesitation. Foot moved back, heels were planted, shoulders squared and torso braced. Felwinter waits until he finishes to step forward again. He puts his hand at the bottom of the shield and nudges it upward until it was at the line of his nose, covering his mouth. “And tilt down slightly, so whatever hits it doesn’t spray into your eyes.” He ordered Jordis to do the same. “Bit more of a tilt,” he said, “And closer to your eyes so you can bring it up in an instant. At ease, then bring it up again.”

From there, Felwinter keeps them well into the day, running them through every drill he’s learned over the years. His decision to incorporate shields back into his fighting style was a late one but when he did, it was good to see that the effects of Ser Castel’s endless drilling hadn’t left him entirely, even years since they last stepped into the ring. Like his mother, their master-at-arms recognized the advantage sharp steel and sharper wits would grant in a magical society such as theirs, who so consistently underestimated the latter in those skilled in the former.

_Stay aware of the air. There’s always a shift when a magic user prepares to cast. I know you’ve felt it around me before._

_Move in hard and fast but know when to back away. Mages, even battlemages, rarely have the stamina for long, drawn out fights. They will try their best to finish you quickly before they tire. A tired mage is a mage who makes mistakes. A mage who makes mistakes is a dead one and they’re all too happy to take you with them._

_When going against a group, always single out and target the mage. Giving one time to cast is a good way to die screaming. I would know. So would the cultists who attacked me and everyone who was around to watch. Even killing their warriors will just result in their corpses coming after you if the mage is half-decent at necromancy._

_If you feel a strange sensation right down to the core of your body, you’re probably being soul-trapped. The good news is that the spell doesn’t last too long and it's hard to cast. Survive until you feel back to normal. Take as few risks as possible. Flee, if necessary. Where your soul will go is not worth it._

_Mages at a distance are a threat but one up close can become a death sentence, unless you take them quickly._

Felwinter takes Jordis’ shield and has Gregor drop his own. He orders the Nord to stretch out his hand, as if casting flames or ice. He shows them both how he uses the shield to move the arm just slightly out of position, away from his face to the space just above his head, leaving Gregor’s torso exposed and a practiced sword pressed into the belly. Hard enough so that Gregor realized his point.

Felwinter tosses the shield back. “Even with all this, a mage acclimated to fighting could still counter. Ducking underneath a sword slash and getting a palm full of lightning or fire to your side is a good way to get put out of commission.” Gregor picks up his shield while Felwinter gathers the swords. “Others could just lock you in a sheet of ice. Or flat-out call a bolt of lightning down just before you can get them.”

“Your mother’s done it before, hasn’t she?” Jordis asked, “Anything regarding magic that impresses even you usually comes from your mother.”

“You know me so well, Jordis. Usually happened to those who were stupid enough to confront her directly or threaten me.” Felwinter held the blades in each hand and absent-mindedly began to move them around, recalling the dual-wield training he had also assumed he had long since forgotten. “She’d only offer mercy to the former.”

“I see where you get it, thane.”

“I take care of my own, Jordis. Anyway, she favors ice. She’s gone so far in her connection with the element, she’s even changed its appearance. It isn’t blue or white. It’s clear, like crystals or diamonds.” He twirled the sword in his left over the back of his hand and smiled slightly at having managed it. “Once tried to convince her to make a bunch, sell them as jewels and make a killing.”

“She sounds like a sensible woman,” Gregor said, “I’m sure she disagreed.”

Jordis snorted at that and at Felwinter admitting silence. “You’ve been training for years. Your lightning, it’s still the same.”

Felwinter stopped in his sword twirling. “Still not as good as her.” He turned to Jordis and grinned. “Give me another decade or two, eh? I’m sure I’ll get it.”

* * *

“Bit of a conspicuous spot for something that can’t be spoken about during the daytime,” Felwinter says on his trek up to the gate. Arano most likely got there at the hour he said he would. The irritation in his face when his eyes landed on Felwinter showed. He wasn’t a man used to waiting. But neither was he a man to forget the position he was in. He needed Felwinter’s help and voicing his annoyance would do him no favors. So the Dunmer nods once in greeting and turns back to the gate, lined by Redoran guardsmen in place of heavy metal grating.

Felwinter was unarmed and armorless, not even the usual cloak gracing his shoulders. There was a slight glimmer to his eyes. Arano could tell he had been drinking. He starts his way out of town, away from the light of torches and the low din of civilization into the quiet of the wilds just outside of Raven Rock.

Felwinter catches up easily. “So what exactly prompted this moonlit walk along the beach? Why am I here, Arano?”

“First Councilor Morvayn is in danger. I need your help saving him.”

The Redguard sobered up quickly. As much as could, anyway. “Your proof?”

“An attempt was made on his life during the Ash Spawn attack.” Arano’s face was carefully neutral and his eyes remained on the water but the tightness could be heard in his voice. “He is unharmed but his wife suffered injuries.”

“Life-threatening?”

“No, but they will scar. Morvayn is as close as blood to me. So is his wife.” His lips pressed together tightly, “Every time I see those scars, I am reminded of my failure. So is he, I suspect. This was politics before. It is personal now.”

_Fangs embedded deep into Moth’s neck. The river of deep, dark red running down his shirt to the ground. The sheer, blinding panic of watching one of the strongest, sturdiest, most immovable men he had ever met drop to trembling knees-_

Felwinter squeezed his eyes shut and breathed. Then he opened them, his tight fist after. He sighed wearily. “Every question answered,” Felwinter reminds Arano, “Every single one. By the First Councilor himself.”

“As I’ve said and Morvayn has agreed.”

“Then where do I start?”

  
  
  



	6. Miraak

The thick wooden door exploded into a shower of shards. A slender figure hurtled through it, its impact responsible for reducing the thing to pieces. The flying woman fell and landed, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. When her body finally came to a sliding stop, she remained prone, unmoving, her head at a strange angle, with blood dripping down the side of her slightly opened mouth.

Back inside the manor, Felwinter ducked just barely in time to avoid the dagger speeding towards his head. He only avoided the worst of the blow, the blade’s edge drawing a red line along his cheek. Felwinter jabbed a fist into the stomach of the assassin. The wind was knocked audibly from her lungs, accompanied by a pained groan.

She recovers even quicker than he did, switching to a reversed grip on her left-held weapon and bringing it up again towards his neck. Felwinter brought his armor-covered arms up to stop it but the blade’s strike never came. A feint; she let herself drop, twisting her body on the way down with expert speed and slicing the edge through the tiny, less protected gap in his armor over his knee.

The sharp, sudden pain and loss of strength forced Felwinter to drop off that leg but adrenaline spurred him on. When the assassin righted herself and brought the dagger down again, using her new elevation to aim for his face, Felwinter blocked it with his gauntlet again. This time, as soon as the blade made contact, Felwinter angled his arm to let it slide off and so that his own could snake up. He locked his arm around her significantly thinner one and with a burst off of his still good leg, threw his full weight forward, plate armor and all. The Dunmer woman fell with him, her weapons sent clattering away. She put her hands up to stop him from bearing down. Felwinter’s dagger found her heart anyway.

He had made the switch when Zazikel had been knocked from his hand. It was for the better; longswords were bad options in close quarters. He was also the biggest and slowest person here, the armor only slowing him down even more. But it offered some measure of protection his opponents couldn’t manage.

He heard the footsteps but that didn’t give him time to respond. The last of the Severins, the male assassin he had thrown into a wall and had hoped would be out of commission for a little while longer, tackles him with surprising strength. His leg still too weak to anchor himself, the assassin sends the both of them tumbling over the ledge overlooking the stairs and falling down. They hit the stairs themselves and keep rolling before finally coming to a stop within the manor’s candlelit lower level.

Felwinter regains his bearing quickly. The assassin, driven either by pain or rage or grief, was even quicker. He kicks up off his back before Felwinter can fully steady himself on his hurt leg. He throws a knife. Felwinter dodges it. Predicting where Felwinter was going to dodge, he threw a second in the shadow of the first. Felwinter can only bring up his hand and a weak warding spell to knock it off its path, sending the blade spinning into the darkness.

Felwinter’s marked arm began to glow. The assassin charges him, giving him no time to prepare whatever magic he had that threw him against a wall and killed his comrade. Felwinter’s entire body shines with light and with a sudden sweep of his arm, every single candle in the area blinks dark, as if blown out by many mouths, all at once.

Now, with no candles and the sun dropping too low for its rays to reach them, the manor was pitch black and the Dragonborn’s glowing was gone. The assassin kept his ears open and his eyes blown wide, flitting back and forth through the darkness to find anywhere the pattern broke. He chooses to risk it, bringing his hand up and calling on his own limited magic. The area takes on a hazy glow. His eyes keep searching, this time for the brightness of life and the living. In a moment of weakness, they flick upwards, where he knew his comrades lay. They find none.

When he does find it, it is nearly too late. He releases the spell, rips out a second dagger and blocks the longsword coming down on him from the darkness. The human was no longer wearing his armor, having somehow switched out into black leather gear that looked vaguely familiar. He was no longer as protected or heavy but now he was faster and still just as strong. Felwinter pushes as hard as he can manage, bearing down on the Dunmer with all his strength.

Then the blade vanishes, as does the bone-crushing pressure. Before the Dunmer can react to the sudden loss, the pressure reappears in his torso, short and sudden and different and...wrong.

Then the pain starts. It didn't stay long. Everything began to go quiet. Felwinter ripped the dagger free of where he had lodged it, a trail of sticky blood and gore following it, dribbling to the ground. The assassin crumbled to his knees, almost silently, and fell, weapons clattering along the stone.

Felwinter pauses to catch his breath, bringing up the dagger. Astrid would appreciate the use he was getting out of it. As much as an eviscerated woman could appreciate anything. The dagger disappears in a flash and Zazikel takes its place. He points it down and drags the point along his opponent’s throat, ending his suffering as well as the fight once and for all.

Felwinter finally relaxes and in doing so, everything comes back to him at once. He staggers over to a chair he can just barely make out in the dark, bumping into a pillar and cursing when it almost tips him over. He leaves Zazikel against the wood and drops into the seat, willing the fireplace to come alive. With the noise, both the Redoran Guard and his housecarls would be here any minute, the latter disobeying orders to stay out of the fight. Then again, the fight was over so it wouldn’t be insubordination. But they didn’t know that and if Felwinter was less tired, he’d find that touching.

For now, he had to himself a tiny bit of quiet, so he used it to work on his injuries. He forgoes the usual drink. He needed to be coherent for his talk (or interrogation) with the First Councilor. He’d close up what he could for now, numb what he could for now and deal with it in its entirety tonight, most likely while drunk.

Felwinter put his fingers to his cheek and let the magic flow into his cut. He hated fighting rogue types. They were always so quick to find gaps and weaknesses in his armor, no matter what kind he wore. Aela rarely went all out in sparring but he’s seen her take down men in as much heavy gear as him with little more than a couple of good swipes. He knew he’d do well to invest in some kind of chainmail or padded shirt to wear beneath his armor. Just another thing to add to the list for when he returned home; improve his armor, study the enchantment on Carius’ hammer and keep Skyrim from politically fracturing apart. The province at this point could simply be talked into another war. Just from the thought of it, Felwinter nearly reneged and took that drink anyway. Instead, his hands drop and open the Guild’s leather armor, giving him access to his bare torso and the wounds lining it.

There was a commotion above. Felwinter could hear the sounds of armored boots running into the house. He only sat back and waited for them to make their way down to him. It was Gregor and Jordis who found him first, sheathing their blades when they took in the sight of the last dead assassin. “Are you hurt, my thane?” Gregor asked, his eyes never leaving the body.

“I’ll live.”

Arano and Veleth soon made their way down with more guardsmen in tow. Veleth barks his orders; search every room, find any survivors. Arano stops at the body of the male assassin, his eyes dangerous, narrow slits. “This was the one,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He reaches down and takes something off of the man’s body, pocketing it. Veleth returns and he rises, declaring the area clear and secure, the operation a success. Arano immediately orders the bodies to be taken out of town and burnt and for the manor to be cleaned up.

Only then does he look at Felwinter, taking in his wounds and the blood on his clothing. “If you’ll follow me…”

He turns and starts back up the stairs without another word. Felwinter stands and closes his clothing again, telling his housecarls to give Veleth whatever help he may need, he will meet them at the inn tonight. He follows the Second Councilor, stepping into the glare of the setting sun and watching as they take the covered body of the assassin away.

He continues to follow Arano, disregarding the stares from the townsfolk the fight must have elicited. Passing the smithy, Felwinter nods to Glover in greeting. The Breton does not nod back. His eyes are wide, his nostrils flared and his breathing is deep, his gaze jumps between Felwtiner’s face and his clothing, over and over again.

He’s led to a modestly sized home, not one Felwinter would expect of a ruler if there weren’t a heavily armed guard standing in front of it. Arano knocks hard against the door two times and then only once gently. A few seconds of silence pass before the door is pulled open, revealing even more guards. They step away to let the two pass, revealing a broad-shouldered and finely clothed Dunmer staring down into the fire of his hearth. He doesn’t turn until the door has been closed again. He says nothing when he does, looking from Arano to Felwinter and then back.

Just as silently, Arano stepped forward, slipping the token from his robes and presenting it. Morvayn takes it and turns back to the fireplace, turning it over in his hands, his eyes low but blazing with firelight and a bit of something else.

“It is done?” First Councilor Morvayn keeps his back to then.

“It’s done.”

Morvayn’s lips purse tightly. He draws in a deep breath and releases the air from his lungs slowly. His features relax and his shoulders deflate but only slightly. The lids of his eyes lower as he continues to stare at the token.

He turns again and Arano steps forward. Morvayn reaches out and takes him into a hard embrace. Felwinter struggles not to feel as if he was intruding. Morvayn keeps Arano close for a few seconds longer before releasing him again, keeping a hand on his shoulder and his waist. “Guards reported a crash. Was anyone hurt?” His eyes flit over to Felwinter. Felwinter, with the line on his cheek scabbing over, the spots of blood on his clothing and clearly favoring one leg over the other, simply shook his head.

Arano steps back and aside, letting the two see each other fully. Morvayn, face unchanging, holds his arm out. Felwinter grasps his forearm. Wordlessly, the First Councilor directs them further in, to chairs near the fireplace. “I’ll handle it from here,” he says to Arano, a hand at the center of his back, “Prepare the manor.”

The Second Councilor bows, as formality would expect. Then as friendship would expect, he nods his goodbyes quickly before stepping out through the door held open. Morvayn steps over to a table, uncorks a bottle and fills two clay cups with amber liquid, handing one over to the Dragonborn before bidding him to join in sitting. “You’ve saved my guards. You saved my people and now you have saved me and my family. The stories aren’t as exaggerated as I once believed.”

“I wish they were. I’m tired.”

The Dunmer offered a small, sympathetic smile, his eyes looking down to Felwinter’s leg for just a second. “Arano has already conveyed my thanks in words. I doubt you need to hear them again. Instead, I offer a reward.” He pauses to take a drink, not wincing in the slightest at the way it must have burned. “Severin Manor. It’s yours.”

Felwinter blinked. “A house? That easily?”

“I’d say my life and the lives of the people I love are worth a house. Would you not agree?”

“The people I love, sure. My own?” He shrugs. “A half-eaten sweetroll. Maybe.”

Morvayn chuckles at that but sobers up quickly. “Answers. You came here for them and now you’re trapped. You’ll be glad to know the ships will be ready within a few days. Hopefully, whatever info I can provide will help so you can go home when they are ready.”

“Hopefully.”

“Then ask freely.”

Felwinter leans back in the woven chair, stretching his injured leg just slightly, heels tapping against the stone floor and the drink coming up to his mouth. Then he leans forwards, elbows on his knees and eyes unblinking. “A month ago now, I was confronted in southern Whiterun Hold by masked cultists. They asked me if I was the one who called myself the Dragonborn and demanded an answer. I lied, they attacked. They were Dunmer and correspondence on their bodies indicated Solstheim as their place of origin, sent by someone calling themselves ‘the one true Dragonborn’. Felwinter pauses to take another drink, finishing it off.

“So my first question is this; who is Miraak?”

The name practically echoes, the way it hangs in the air. It is Dovahzul, uttering the word has power. Morvayn’s eyes have turned to the fire again. “It is a name I’ve heard in history. That he was a Dragon Priest and a mage of near godlike power. Legend has it that his clash with one of his fellow priests was what created this island, splitting it from Skyrim. But I’ve only ever known it to be just that, a legend.”

“And now?”

“Now I hear the name more frequently. This coincides right with when the Earth Stone and its counterparts began taking people.”

Felwinter drew closer. “Counterparts? There are other stones?”

“The Wind Stone, the Beast, the Water, the Tree and I believe one called the Sun Stone. Six All-Maker Stones dot the island and all of them have people building...something around them. All of them chanting the same thing.”

“What were they saying?”

“Reports clash. Veleth’s men cannot get close enough to get clarification, not without being taken themselves. But the ones who did report have heard the name ‘Miraak’ almost every time.”

Felwinter breathed deeply. He had been right. “I’ll find out for you then.”

“Arano tells me you’ve gotten close to the Stone a number of times.” His crimson eyes left the fire. “You do not feel any different?”

“I feel the pull but it has no sway on me. My housecarls aren’t so fortunate. I’ve had to forbid them from getting close. When did this all start?”

“Nearly three months ago now.”

“And no one has done anything? Have you reached out to mainland Morrowind?”

“I sent three messengers.” The first hints of frustration were crawling along his brow, aimed at Felwinter or maybe just the difficulty of his situation. “They hadn’t been heard back from in weeks. Scouting parties would find them later, among other Dunmer and Skaal, at the Stones. They reacted the same way as the others when we tried to move them away; violently. They’ll attack anyone who tries to take them away from their work and they will fight to kill, either their opponent or themselves. One of our guards fought the compulsion with everything he had in order to reach his sister. She rewarded his efforts by nearly braining him with a hammer. The safest thing for everyone was to leave them where they were.”

Morvayn stands and walks over to his desk, sparsely covered with a few papers, an inkpot and a single lit candle, leaving Felwinter to contemplate his words. They’ve worked continuously for months so magic must have been sustaining them. None appeared gaunt or haggard. The ones who Veleth had even pointed out as his own captured men were every bit as sturdy and strapping as ever; no signs of atrophy. That lessened the worry Felwinter had held that they would simply collapse if he dispelled the magic keeping them going in place of food or drink. It was also more widespread than he originally believed. New worries.

“I know the location of one of the other Stones.” Morvayn’s voice pulled him from his own head. He stood up from his desk, walked back and handed a small piece of parchment to Felwinter. “The other structures being built don’t seem to be as big as this one. The mage, Neloth, recognized it as the Temple of Miraak and it surrounds the Tree Stone. Speak to the Skaal. A number of their people are trapped there as well, they will have a vested interest in helping you.”

Felwinter takes a few seconds to skim the note. Then he folds it. “I will take some time to prepare,” he told the First Councilor, “Then I will make my way to the Temple. If this so-called Miraak is here, then maybe killing him will break this spell and free your people.”

Morvayn hums. Then after a moment, he says, “Miraak was real, Felwinter. And the histories were never clear as to whether or not he died in that battle. Stories even say he lies in wait, anticipating the day of his return.”

“Short of being a vampire, Miraak would have died of old age by now,” Felwinter said, rising to his feet, still favoring the uninjured one, “More likely, this is some mage with delusions of grandeur, taking his name as well as his infamy.”

“He still must be an exceptional mage to manage something like this.”

“All the magic in the world won’t save a heart that’s been run through by a sword.”

“Is it so simple?”

More than likely, it wasn’t. More than likely, this all tied into something bigger. Maybe much bigger.

“No,” The Dragonborn replied truthfully, “I’d be surprised if it was. But I can’t think of a better way to find out. Waiting does nothing for no one.” Felwinter put his hand to his knee, willing just a bit of magic into it so it would stop hurting him. “I’ll start preparations and let you know when I’m ready to make for the temple. With luck, we’ll both be wrong and this will be over quickly.”

“But not too quickly…”

Felwinter’s eyebrows raised, then so did the corner of his mouth. “No. Not too quickly.”

Morvayn agreed to his plans and bid the other man farewell. He watched as Felwinter stepped through the door and back outside, taking notice of the torchlights. Then the door closed and he was alone again. He removed the pendant from a pocket within his clothing to look at it again. A simple thing of carved wood, very old, very special. His thumb ran over the stylings on its face and he recalled the last time he held it in his hands. The effects of a man he executed, to be given to the man’s descendant, to the man’s son.

Now another execution and this time, there would be no one for it to be given to. Morvayn tossed it into the fire.


	7. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the absence but over the last few weeks, I've actually been interviewing for several medical schools, so that took priority over uploads. The good news is that, in addition to this, I have the next two chapters pretty much done

The captain’s men worked efficiently. By the time they had moved into the manor, every bit of evidence that it had been previously owned had been scrubbed away. The shattered door and broken furniture were replaced, bodies removed, personal belongings collected, pools of blood cleaned up; one could be forgiven for mistaking the place to be brand new.

The chair Felwinter had dropped into after the fight was still there, though he suspected they at least wiped it down. It turned towards the dead fireplace, brought to life again with a wave of a hand. Felwinter went around the lower level, sparking flames and lighting candles with his fingers one by one.

Settling down was quick but only because there wasn’t much to settle. They’d be heading to the temple the day after the next and once and for all, they were going to put a stop to this. Felwinter left Gregor to handle dinner while Jordis set more chairs down near the fireplace for them to sit. Felwinter went through the other rooms until he found one he deemed both slightly spacious and inconspicuous enough to set the portal.

Jordis joined him when she finished, taking to watching him. “Do you think distance will be a problem?” she asked, standing over Felwinter as he kneeled.

“Doubt it. The distance between us and the mainland is about the same as between Riften and Solitude. Portal goes through a pocket of Oblivion as a shortcut so I don’t think-is Gregor almost done cause I’m hungry as shit!” He demanded loudly, switching topics without a beat.

Jordis huffed, amused. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Felwinter whines but goes back to his work. “This used to be a two-person job, you know. But I’ve gotten enough practice in the magic involved.”

“How do you make sure it’s safe to go in?”

“It’s not as if it goes through a place like the Deadlands or Apocrypha. There’s little danger of anything waiting on the other side. But just to be safe, I tend to stick something through.” He turned as if he could feel the look she was aiming at his head. “Not myself. Learned that lesson a while back.” He waved the marked arm for emphasis.

“Really? Since when were you the type to learn lessons?” She asked, crossing her arms.

“It’s been known to happen...”

His defensive tone was all she needed. “Moth forbade it, didn’t he?”

“Neither you nor he are any fun.”

Gregor’s voice came through, accompanied by loud banging on the door. Their meal was ready.

* * *

No windows but the sun was down, judging by how quickly the place cooled. Felwinter would need time to set the runes and spells in place that would keep the place warm and the fires sealed off. Neither would get done on an empty stomach.

The stew bubbled over the fireplace and several trays of fresh bread lay before it. The food was good, even after Felwinter had gotten his spaces into it.

_I put three pinches of salt into something and you Nords start crying. You’ll deal with it tonight._

Jordis had her fill after one. Gregor was starting in on his second, scarfing down a loaf of bread and Felwinter was standing at the fireplace, dishing out his fourth. A house sealed against the elements, shut away from the public with a pot of food over a roaring fire, this was the most relaxed any of them had been since their arrival, even with the battle ahead.

Not even Gregor seemed apprehensive. Quite the opposite; the man had flopped into the bed given to him as soon as his armor had been removed and only the promise of food got him moving again, until he was told he’d have to make it. Now here he was, a far cry from the image of the stalwart, serious and protective guardsman. He slouched in his chair, one hand splayed over his torso, the other loosely clutching a mug of chilled ale. Legs splayed out towards the fire and a groggy grin aimed towards nothing gracing his face.

The display reminded Jordis of a question she had been meaning to ask for some time. “Thane?”

“That’s me.”

“You said before that after me, you weren’t taking on any more housecarls,” she recalled, gesturing to the other Nord, “What changed your mind?”

Gregor’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward just a bit, anticipating Felwinter’s answer. The half-Breton stretched out the leg still paining him and rubbed his beard. “Ahh, it’s a long story…”

Gregor lifted his cup to his lips. A short pause.

Jordis ended it. “It’s the muscles, isn’t it?” she asked and smiled at the fit of coughing that erupted from the other side of the room.

The defensive tone returned. “No...well...they helped!”

“I’m sure.”

Gregor groaned loudly, openly. It wasn’t the drink alone responsible for the sudden reddening of his skin.

“I...listen…” Felwinter’s hand darted out and suddenly took hold of Gregor’s heavy arm, yanking him forward. “Can you blame me? Look at him. Muscled like a maiden’s fantasy.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m a weak man, Jordis.”

“You are.”

Gregor snatched his arm back, turning even further away and practically tucking his bald head into the neck of his shirt, shoulders shaking. The two of them refused to let up. “Maybe I’ll take him to High Rock with me one day but honestly, those noble girls would never give him back. They’d ruin him. At least until their dear lord father found out…”

“And demanded his turn.”

“Alright, alright, mercy!” Gregor practically crowed, red from the crown of his head to the center of his chest. “Divines, have mercy.”

“Just having some fun, Gregor,” Felwinter said, taking down the rest of his food, “In truth, I had forgotten to tell them. By the time I returned to Dawnstar, they had you waiting for me. You seemed so eager and ready to serve, I didn’t have the heart to send you back. Then this whole…” Felwinter waved at the air, “ _mess_ started, so I figured I’d take you along. Get you broken in. Good and rough.” He leaned over and jostled the housecarl for emphasis.

Jordis rose to her feet. “We all have our first,” she said, making for the barrel of ale sitting in a back corner, “You had more fun against Carius than I did against the Wolf Queen.”

Felwinter pressed the conversation on through Gregor’s sudden, sharp pause. “Yeah and what does that mean for me? I had to be there for all of it.”

“Thane, you were the reason we were there in the first place.”

“I wasn’t even a thane yet, was I?” Felwinter leaned forward and picked his mug off the ground. “And still, they just threw you at me.”

“The Wolf Queen?” Gregor asked loudly, “Potema, the Wolf Queen?!”

“Yes, Gregor. Keep up.”

“I won’t complain. Much.” Jordis said, earning a half-buzzed chortle. She returned to her chair. “It worked out well in the end.”

“So it did. Now I’m the one who gets to throw you at things.”

“More like you throw yourself at things and I follow out of obligation.”

A snort. “Obligation, my dark, wrinkly sack. You follow cause you care.”

“And I will never admit it.”

“Good enough for me.” Felwinter held his mug out and Jordis tapped her own against it.

Silence followed, companionable and easy. Wordlessly, Felwinter gestured to the last of the bread they had been gifted and snatched it up when both Jordis and Gregor rejected it. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you train, Jordis? Solitude?”

“Somewhat. Was actually born in Falkreath and moved up to Solitude when I was a child with my ma and sister. It was my mother who trained us to fight. My sister learned but as she grew older, she took more of an interest in magic so she moved down to Cyrodiil.”

Felwinter rumbled, “Finally, someone with taste.”

Jordis gently kicked his shin. “She and our mother are doing well there. Found herself a good-paying job and a man. Another Nord who challenged her to a duel and lost so spectacularly, he’s fallen head over heels. He’s been wooing her ever since.”

“Good man!” Felwinter raised his mug and this time, did not get kicked.

“What of you, thane?” Gregor turned his attention, “All I hear of High Rock is mages and nobles and ridiculous titles. Any actual training done?”

“You got the gist of it. I’m as much ‘Lord’ as I am ‘Thane’. But to answer, I learned a lot of my magic from my mother. Tutored me herself and paid for my education. Learned sword fighting from the castle’s master-at-arms, Ser Roderin Castel. Brute of a man, taller and bigger than I am even now, he was good with everything but best with greatswords. I stuck with regular longswords so I could use my magic while fighting. Learned more techniques for that after slumming it for damn near twelve years in Hammerfell.”

“What were you doing down there?”

Felwinter shrugged. “Growing up. From the time I was born to age seven and then age thirteen to eighteen, I grew up in a castle bigger than Dragonsreach. Ate the finest foods, trained with one of the best knights in the realm and received an education befitting an heir to Dragon’s Ascent. Going from the pinnacle of society to the dregs, I didn’t have much choice but to grow up.”

He smiled, again at the fire. “Could you imagine it? Hammerfell, four or five years in, still too much of a boy to grow a beard, half the weight I am now, fitted in cheap, ramshackle armor, sleeping in a different seedy inn on the nights he could afford it and in stables when I couldn’t and realize, this is a Breton lord?” His head fell back and he swallowed, the bobbing of his throat outlined by firelight. “This kid calling himself a sellsword, running with less than scrupulous companies, grew up richer than everyone in every one of those companies combined.”

“Did you regret leaving High Rock?” Jordis asked.

Felwinter straightened his neck again. “No. I regret how I left things but I don’t regret leaving. I couldn’t be what High Rock wanted me to be. It was best for everyone that I leave.”

Silence passes over them again, filled only with the shift of bodies, breathing and the crackle of the flames. Then Jordis asked, gently, “Will you ever go back?”

Even softer, he answered. “Eventually. If anything, the kids should meet their grandmother. Moth should meet her too.” He finishes the last of his drink and smiles wide, baring his teeth. “And my grandfather’s grave hasn’t been watered in a while. Someone should get on that.”

Another pause. Then Jordis snorted. Gregor only blinked. “You planted flowers on his grave?”

“No.”

“And why would you water them, I thought you hated….ah.”

A second snort, louder and longer this time. “Ah?” Felwinter asked.

“Ah.”

* * *

It was late when they began to break apart. Jordis retires first and Gregor assures that he will leave soon. Felwinter tells him to do so anyway, gently slapping the side of his shaved head on his way back to the portal room. He closed the doors behind him. The wooden frame had been set up quickly and with little effort. The hard part was still to come.

Felwinter peeled off his shirt for comfort, the garment sweat-damp from the heat of the fireplace and the alcohol. Gently, to keep pressure off his bad knee, he lowered into a sitting position on the stone floor. He picked up a notebook, still where he had left it, still on the page he had left it. His eyes zeroed in on the sketches of glyphs and the lines of text that swirled around them.

He wasn’t reading.

He was thinking of High Rock. Of Dragon’s Ascent. Of his mother. If he was right and distance wasn’t a factor in the portal room’s functionality then there was no reason he couldn’t…

He closed his eyes, his jaw set tight. He’d still have to go to High Rock, finish the portal’s set up. And he wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet. He wasn’t brave enough.

Thoughts for another time, he decided. Felwinter extended his arm, pressing his pointer and middle to the stone, letting his magic gather at that point and when it reached levels he deemed sufficient, he began to draw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The highlight of this chapter was getting to write Felwinter saying “My dark, wrinkly sack”


	8. The Last Night

“Felwinter, a good morning to you.” Captain Veleth grasped the forearm held out to him. Arano’s hands remained folded behind his back but still, he offered a nod. Not necessarily a warmer greeting but more sincere than the ones from when they first met. Felwinter found the Dunmer men at the gates, looking over the repairs. Veleth’s hand remained fixed to the hilt of his sword. Arano’s eyes kept turning towards the horizon.

“You’re alone.” Arano’s eyes left the skyline again to scan at Felwinter’s back, taking notice at the lack of Nords rumbling after him. This man took a fort almost on his own. Arano wondered why he even bothered with bodyguards at all.

Felwinter twisted to look behind him, as if surprised to not see his housecarls there. But when he turned back, a grin graced his scarred face. “I let them sleep in. I challenged one of them to a drinking contest. He lost. I cheated.”

Despite himself, Veleth snorted and even Arano managed a small smile, though it was quickly here and gone. “You head for the Temple of Miraak on the morrow, don’t you? I trust you have a plan?”

“I do and I do.” Felwinter trudged forward, stepping just past them and pointed out of the gate, towards the northeast. “The temple is smaller than Fort Frostmoth but better put together. Despite that, I don’t believe I will actually be assaulting it.”

“Did you find something of use in the scouting reports?” Veleth asked.

“There have been sightings of people in that ridiculous cultist getup, so I’m headed in the right direction. No Ash Spawn, at least outside. Like I said, I don’t think I’ll need to assault it. That’s good because I’ll most likely be breaching the temple on my own.”

Confusion flashed in Arano’s eyes for only the span of a breath. “The Tree Stone,” he murmured, “They are not immune like you.”

Felwinter nodded. “I’ll get them as close as I safely can, in case I need them. Though, even then, I’d have to retreat towards them.” The man shrugged, “In any case, it’s what we’ve decided.”

Veleth hummed and turned back to the town gate. He brought one of his arms and traced his hand down the metal-reinforced wood. “The blacksmith does good work. The gate’s been repaired,” he said, “And is prepared to drop on a moment’s notice.”

“I think it best you not leave things to chance. Close the gate at my departure. Put out the word that no one leaves the town until after tomorrow.”

Arano’s eyes narrowed. “Even if the gate could stop them, which it did not last time, did you not kill Falx Carius? The Ash Spawn are scattered…”

“But not entirely gone,” Felwinter sighed, fingers running through his coarse black beard. “General Carius was controlling them but I don’t think he conjured or sustained them. Nothing I’ve learned about him suggests he was a necromancer, let alone one powerful enough to raise an army. But someone is. They likely revived Carius and the Ash Spawn and they're likely still out there.”

Arano remained as calm as ever but the effect on Veleth was visible, if not hidden. His shoulders had tightened, his breathing sharpened and his eyes flicked over and over to the lands outside the gate, as if he was expecting a blast of fire to come sailing over the horizon. “So they could attack again?” He asked, tone low.

“I doubt with as much strength as before…” Felwinter mostly said it to calm him. The look in Veleth’s eyes when they swiveled over to him told him what he thought of the attempt. “But yes. It could happen.”

“Then the gate will be closed on your departure,” Arano declared. He turned his eyes towards Veleth and after a few seconds, the guardsman grunted his agreement.

* * *

“Figured you’d be more annoyed with me. I mean…” Felwinter gestured weakly in the direction of the closed mine, “Two weeks here and I never got into that mine for you.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his leg. “Believe it or not, I do try to keep my promises. Except when I don’t want to.”

Crescius chuckled lightly, his chin resting on his fist and the arm below it resting upright on the table between him and the Dragonborn. He listened to Felwinter’s apologies with a look of tickled confusion. “Since we’re being honest, Felwinter.” The old man shrugged, “I had forgotten about it. So much has happened in the last two weeks. Two Ash Spawn attacks, the attempt on the First Councilor’s life and your little fight with the Severins. Nearly all of it has just made me glad that me and mine are still here, still alive.”

“Did you ever meet your grandfather, Crescius?”

“Great-grandfather,” he corrected. Then he shook his head and a small bit of sadness leaked into his eyes. “But my grandfather spoke well of him and often. Broke his heart as a boy, to lose a father such as he.”

“My own great-grandfather died long before I was born. As did my grandmother. My grandfather didn’t.”

Crescius’ lips curved into a smile. “You don’t sound all too pleased.”

“The man was a bastard,” Felwinter said, “So was I but only one of us had a choice.”

A bark of laughter escaped the older man, its suddenness and strength contradicting his age. “I will find the time,” Felwinter tells him, “I promise you, I will.”

Crescius looks him up and down, takes the measure of him. Not for the first time. The results keep changing. Then he turns to look behind himself and at the Earth Stone, the black spire in the distance. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it yet but you’ve been the talk of the town since you arrived.” He turned back.

“I’ve done a lot since I arrived.”

“True but what truly got tongues wagging is what you did right before the Ash Spawn attacked.” He twisted again and pointed, “You went up to that thing and easily came back down. The only person aside from that wizard to do so and it is well known he uses magic to defend himself. You’re a stranger, a foreigner who had no deep insight into the Stone.”

“Still don’t.”

Crescius turned back around and stood. “Point is, you’re likely the miracle this town has been hoping for. The one who can free our people and put a stop to what threatens us. I appreciate the promise Felwinter but, I assure you,” He put a hand on Felwinter’s shoulder, “You have bigger things to worry about.”

Felwinter looked up at him and then nodded. The old man pats him twice. “Save the town first. Then run my errands, huh?”

Felwinter’s face broke into a grin. “Right, thank you. Priorities were never my strong suit.” He sobered up though and brought his hand up to place over the Imperial’s.

* * *

When Felwinter approached the smithy, Glover’s head rose just barely as acknowledgement. He wouldn’t meet Felwinter’s eyes. Hadn’t since the fight against the assassins, much less spoken to him at any length.

Felwinter doesn’t come closer in. Instead, he goes over to the front door of the man’s house and leans against it. He watched the Breton work for a few seconds more before asking, “Jordis and Gregor got their weapons over to you?”

“They did.” His answer was immediate and muttered. He still wouldn’t turn to look at him.

“The verdict?”

Glover shrugged. “Not much needed. I’ll get it back to them in a little while.” Silence followed again. By the way Glover’s neck remained tight and his hands began moving faster, he could feel Felwinter’s gaze boring into the back of his head. The man’s entire body moved when he swallowed the lump in his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was as tight as the rest of him, “If there’s nothing else…”

Felwinter’s patience had come to an end just as quickly. “Do you and I have a problem, Glover?”

The grindstone kept grinding. “No problems.”

“You take one look at the Thieves Guild uniform and suddenly, I’m a stranger again. Worse than a stranger, you at least spoke to me before. Which means you know of it. So instead of lying to me about what I already know, give it to me straight. What is the problem?”

The stone wheel stopped. Glover’s grip on the weapon’s handle adjusted and readjusted. “I’ve met members of that guild before,” he said, his chin practically tucked into his chest. “Just thought you were something better than that.”

“Circumstances led me to them, Glover,” Felwinter said and found it odd that he was trying to justify himself to this man.

“I’m sure. Always does.”

Felwinter let a sigh out through his nose. There was no point in defending the Thieves Guild to outsiders and even if there were, he had no right. “If that’s how you feel, I understand.” Felwinter put his hand to the door’s wooden frame and prepared to push off. “I’ll send Jordis and Gregor to collect their things in an hour. With your pay.”

Glover gives an irritated, dismissive grunt and nothing more. Felwinter pushed away and then stopped. His fingers remained just barely against the frame. He could feel something there. Something small and hidden but too neat to be a simple blemish in the sanding of the wood. Felwinter’s eyes flicked over to Glover, seeing the man’s back still turned to him and then looked closer at the mark. Visible but nondescript and out of the sun. A circle encased in a diamond. It was almost painfully familiar.

Felwinter moves away, keeping his eyes on Glover’s back for a few seconds before turning on his heel and walking away. Behind him, he hears the grindstone stop. After a few seconds, it picks up again.

* * *

Felwinter got to his feet and stretched, hearing several things pop and wondering if he would regret them later.

He had resumed work on the portal at sundown. It was well into the evening now and it was only nearly done. He decided then that it would be better off if he retired and finished in the morning. He never could sleep in before a battle, regardless of how well he did so.

Roughly and unnecessarily, Felwinter shouldered his way through the door. His sleeping leg still waking up, he waddled his way over to the cooking pot on the flame, low but still dancing. Felwinter willed the fire further into life and had helped himself to nearly three loaves of bread by the time it was bubbling again. With a filled bowl, two more loaves and the leg of a chicken in hand, Felwinter made his way to Jordis’ room.

The chicken didn’t survive the journey. Working the bone in his teeth, he rapped his knuckles against her door. He pushed it open when bid and found her sitting on her bed, running an oiled cloth down her blade. Like his own, her armor and shield were stashed away in the corner, meticulously checked and rechecked ready to be slipped on at first light.

Jordis looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. “What’ve you got there?”

“Bowl of stew.” Felwinter held it out.

“In your mouth, I mean.”

“Chicken bone.” His teeth broke through the bone’s soft head, allowing Felwinter access to the marrow within.

She turned her eyes back to her sword. “And why are you still sucking on it?”

“Reminds me of my husband.”

Her hand paused. She didn’t even respond, she only looked at the door and let out a long sigh. Felwinter’s low chuckle filled the room. “Since you’re here, bothering me, I take it the portal is finished?”

“Somewhat.” Felwinter took the bone from his mouth and stabbed the sharp, broken end into a piece of soaking bread. “I’ll get a jump on it in the morning.”

She nodded and turned her attention back to the blade. “You’re set in regards to everything else then.”

“I am.” He leaned against the frame. “Get in, get this guy’s head, get out and go home.”

“Is it too much to hope that it will actually be that simple?”

“Yes but I’ve never let that stop me. Should probably check in on Gregor,” he said, pushing off the frame with a grunt, “Get on his nerves a bit, relax him before the big fi-” He stopped when Jordis began shaking her head. She put one finger to her lips and then brought the same finger up to tap her ears. _Be silent and listen_.

Felwinter listened to silence. Then more silence. Then snoring. Felwinter huffed out a laugh. “Might go bother him anyway.”

“He’s doing better since Fort Frostmoth.”

“Good on me for not breaking him as soon as I got him.”

“You did good in keeping him,” she went on.

Felwinter hummed. Then he put the bone back in his mouth, crushing more of the hard shell with the teeth on the side of his jaw. Then he asked, “How do you think tomorrow’s gonna go?”

Jordis only shrugged. “If it’s anything like our usual dungeon crawling, long and arduous, with some necromancer or such waiting for us at the very end. Maybe even near one of your Word Walls.”

“There are always Word Walls, aren’t there?” He laughed. She smiled with him.

Felwinter let out another sigh and felt the exhaustion finally start to set in. He turned to leave. “Almost home, Jordis.”

“Almost,” she emphasized.

“Almost,” Felwinter agreed. He bade her good night with a nod and closed the door. Felwinter made back for his room, stopping only to grab the last leg of chicken on the table. This one didn’t make the journey either. Felwinter paused near a bucket of water, waiting until he had drained the last of his stew to let the wooden bowl down into it, leaving it to soak.

Felwinter stepped through his doorway and pushed it closed, eyes on the portal, building itself upon the magic he had provided it. A slower process than normal but it meant he wouldn’t have to sit and work on it for hours into the night.

Felwinter grabbed the neck of his shirt from the back and yanked it over his head. He had forgone shoes entirely when they had first settled for the night. The garment was tossed onto a nearby chair, his pants off a moment later, left somewhere for him to trip over in the morning. As he slid into bed, the fireplace dimmed slowly and gently for a while, before it fizzled out entirely.

* * *

The wind blew, sharp and frigid. Felwinter flinched backwards, away from Ser Castel and grabbed at his nose, trying to get the body part to stop hurting. He was nearly doubled over, using a sparring sword for balance lest he tip over entirely. Again, Ser Castel offered for them to spar someplace warmer. Again, with tears just barely held in check, Felwinter shook his head and refused. Places that were warmer were more crowded and what Felwinter wanted to ask, once he finally worked up the courage, he did not want other ears hearing.

After a few more minutes of trying to convince himself, he called, “Ser Castel?”

The man moved the rag he had to wipe the sweat from his head out of his eyes, silently beckoning Felwinter to continue.

“You knew my father, didn’t you?” The eyes on him darkened. “Who was he?” Felwinter asked anyway, “What was he like?”

The massive Breton pulled the rag away and carefully asked, “What has your mother told you?”

“Not much,” Felwinter said and it was somewhat true. Delilah didn’t like talking about him. Upon questioning others who had been here for a lengthy amount of time, he learned that she was forbidding others to speak of it as well. “I just know he used to serve under Lord Drakon. Mother won’t even tell me his name.”

“If you’re looking for me to do so, I will not,” he stated, “Your mother and my lord gave me my orders-”

“What does Lord Drakon care?” Felwinter spat out before he realized he was, “Since when does he care? About anything?”

“Careful, boy.” Ser Castel’s tone dropped practically into the grave, “Even with me.”

Felwinter broke away from his gaze and muttered an apology he did not mean. After a few seconds, he could hear Castel sigh. “Your father,” he said, bringing Felwinter’s head swinging back towards him. “He was...a fighter. A good one.” Castel had lowered his voice enough that Felwinter unconsciously took several steps towards him. “Came here with little magic experience but your grandfather took personal charge of training him.”

“Really?!” And Ser Roderin shushed him. Felwinter lowered his tone but the fount was uncapped. “What kind of magic? What was his preference? Did he become really good at it?”

The old knight’s face was tight and his eyes rarely remained on Felwinter’s brightened face, always darting to look around them. Still, he answered, “He preferred destruction. Fire. He very much wanted to learn fire. Outright demanded our lord that if he taught him anything, that he teach him how to wield fire.”

“But...but wh-”

“That’s enough, Felwinter.” The man said his name but deep down, Felwinter knew the command wasn’t aimed at him. Not truly.

“Ser Roderin!” A voice boomed across the courtyard. Only seemingly. In truth, the voice calling remained calm and even. But everyone and everything, from people to birds to the wind even, seemed to have gone meekly quiet.

Ser Roderin sank his blade into the soft ground and bowed towards his lord, as did everyone within the vicinity of his approach. Felwinter, remembering himself, quickly moved to do the same. Hand to his stomach, he remembered his mother’s lessons. When he rose back up, his focus remained on the ground, if only to keep the older man’s cold, dark eyes from piercing through him.

They were his mother’s eyes. As were Felwinter’s. The boy wondered if his lord, his grandfather, saw the same whenever Felwinter met his gaze. Felwinter believed he did, if only because of how quickly and how often his face twisted into a vicious scowl upon seeing him.

The comparisons mostly stopped there. Lucius Bastion of House Drakon was a man of middling height, diminutive next to the likes of Ser Castel, as was everyone, in fairness. He was lean but muscled, aged but didn’t look it, his tan brown skin hiding most signs. Slicked back hair and a trimmed beard, both as black as ink with small strands of grey beginning to grow out from the temples and jawline. He strode up to them flanked by two guards, with his ringed hands clasped behind his back and his chin angled up into the air. Spine straight, face even and tempered; a noble’s bearing through and through.

“How may I serve?” Ser Roderin asked him.

“The bandits that have been attacking the coastal villages,” Lord Drakon said, his voice still never rising above normal volume. So used to those under him hanging off of every word that passed his lips. “Scouts have reported back with the location of their hideout.”

Ser Roderin nodded and stepped away from his sparring blade, still trapped in the dirt. “Were any of our scouts seen, my lord? Do you know?”

“None were compromised,” he replied easily, as if he had already asked the scouts themselves. “I’ve sent word ahead to the squires, they will have your armor and your weapons prepared,” Lord Drakon went on, “Numbers give a maximum estimate of fifteen men, three of them mages.”

“I will take fifteen then.”

“You will take thirty,” Lord Drakon commanded, “I suffer no lawlessness and I suffer no prisoners. Scouts also report the brigands spending more and more time around their hideout, possibly in anticipation of another raid. The village near them is small and the inhabitants are not fighters. Move with haste, ser knight.” Fully dressed, Ser Castel bowed once more before taking off at a brisk, forceful walk towards the castle gates.

Felwinter’s eyes stayed on the dirt beneath his boots for the entirety of the conversation and for a few seconds after, until Ser Castel left him alone with the lord. Lord Drakon remained silent, as still as stone and Felwinter could feel the burn of his gaze through the crown of his head.

Training was over. Ser Castel retrieved their weapons at the beginning and Felwinter’s duty was to return them at the end. The boy turned away from his liege with a simple and mumbled, “my lord”. He bent down to reach for his own shortsword first.

The weapon jolted, slightly out of his reach and surprised him enough to make him stumble. When he reached for it a second time, the blade bolted past him, its flat end swiping his hand in its flight hard enough to make him yell, clutching the limb and fighting back tears of pain for the second time that half-hour.

The sword landed perfectly in Lord Drakon’s hand, one taken out from behind his back while the other remained. Hands with fingers that were gilded and deft but worn, with both age and experience; Lord Drakon was a man well-versed in handling blades. Those fingers held the hilt of the sparring blade up to eye level as he looked it over. His gaze returned to Felwinter and when Felwinter did dare to meet his eyes this time, he found nothing but contempt. He even felt it along his skin. Buzzing, like whenever his mother prepared to cast. But in noticing it, Felwinter noticed how different it was. Cold, severe, he felt it along his small frame, he felt it in his injured hand. Even the guards seemed uncomfortable. Even the birds remained silent.

“Ser Castel?” The knight stopped at the sound of his name, only his arms moving to strap on a set of heavy metal gauntlets. “I don’t recall permitting for this one to be trained.”

Felwinter’s eyes fell back to his feet. “Forgive me, lord,” he heard Ser Castel say, “It was the lady Delilah who ordered his training.”

“Why?” He snapped harshly, “Because he is of her? He is of her body? So are the contents of her chamber pot, should I see them trained too?”

“The boy shows promise,” Castel pointed out in Felwinter’s defense, “He may prove himself a capable fighter. A guardsman, in service of your house.”

That deep, cold stare finally slips away from Felwinter. Lord Drakon turned his head slightly towards Castel but not enough to meet his eyes. His face, for just barely a second, twisted. It transformed into something, something that was even more blood-curdling and wrathful.

But only for a second. “Be on your way, ser knight.” Lord Drakon let slip the blade and its clattering made Felwinter jump. He stumbled to get out of the older man’s way as he strode past in silence. Felwinter bowed again as he did. When he rose, it was only when Lord Drakon was out of sight.

Ser Castel remained but only until he caught Felwinter’s eyes. He held the boy’s gaze and gave him a slow, reassuring nod. Only then did he turn and resume his journey towards the gates. Felwinter trudged over to pick up the short sparring blade and returned it to the rack. When he went over to the greatsword his teacher had left stabbed into the earth, he hesitated. Keeping his injured hand close, he wrapped his other one around the guard of the hilt and managed to push it out of the dirt. It was all he could manage. When he had to pick it up, he did so with both hands, fighting through the sharp stinging that coursed through one.

With difficulty, Felwinter returned the last blade to the rack. He started for the inside of the castle, intent on seeking out his mother for help with his hand. The memory of last night stopped him just as quickly.

The memory of his mother working on his nose, from late day into the early evening, doing what she could to repair the small breaks that guardsman’s knee had given it, even after shattering the entire thing.

Felwinter remembered the lines developing in her face, lines that made her seem so much older. The exhausted pallor to her skin when they were finished, her rushing out of his room to be sick where he thought he wouldn’t hear, sleeping through the morning and only breaking her fast in the midday.

Felwinter backtracked, away from the door leading into Dragon’s Ascent. He turned on his heels and started for the healer’s hut, hoping they were not too busy to see him. A concern he would not have if they knew who his mother was and even more than that, who his grandfather was.

* * *

Morning had come. While most of the sun still slept below the horizon, the slightest pieces of its light cast themselves across the night, throwing stark shadows along the trees and the mountains.

“Why do we wait?” In the hills overlooking Raven Rock, a voice could just barely be heard.

A second voice responded to the first. “It is what has been commanded of us.”

“He is right there.” The first seethed, “He is vulnerable. The sun is still low. We could attack!”

“There is no such thing as a vulnerable dragon.”

“We could take him.” He was insistent. So painfully insistent. “We could _take him_.”

The elf took his eyes off the town down in the distance below and looked down at his companion. Took in all of his barely contained rage and palpable bloodlust and smiled. “You will get what you deserve. As will he.”

The human rumbled and shook like the bear he so closely resembled but he kept quiet. He kept quiet and still until he could just begin feeling the fist touches of heat on his back. Then a hand clapped against it and behind him, he could hear smiling.

“The day is new and she greets us.” The elf crowed into the dawn sky, “To war, my enemy. To war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of the Drakon family as one of South Asian descent, in case anyone wanted a reference for their familial traits. In our world, that would make Felwinter of Black/African and South Asian descent.


	9. Marked for Death

Felwinter is out of bed within seconds of waking. There was little to gain in the way of procrastinating now. He waddled his way over to the portal after relieving himself and pressing his palm flat against the blank surface, he wills it to life. The reaction came just seconds later. The stone wall begins to fade from a dark gray into a pale white and blue, swirling and shimmering in the air like the surface of a lake.

It was done. It would get them home when the time came. Felwinter willed the portal back into dormancy. Testing it wouldn’t be necessary, neither would it the best idea. If he stepped through now, he would likely never come back.

Felwinter spent the trip from the portal to the washbasin muttering to himself, _“Whiterun has my kids. Whiterun has my friends. Whiterun has my bed and two-hundred and ten pounds of pure Orc beef keeping it warm just for me. What does Solstheim have? Ash Spawn and even more wannabe conquerors.”_

His griping to no one in particular was interrupted when he heard movement. The others were stirring. Felwinter could be ready to go within seconds and morale might at least be helped by a hot meal, so he cleaned himself up and left the room. The dead flame beneath the pot in the fireplace returned to life with less effort from Felwinter than it took him to yawn and stretch.

Jordis was out first, stretching in her armor and bidding her thane good morning. Felwinter had a bowl ready and outstretched by the time she drew near and she received it with quiet thanks. Felwinter set down one for Gregor before taking his own, figuring him to be praying.

“We have a plan?” Jordis asked, her low tone ringing in the silence. Gregor’s door creaked open and from behind them, heavy booted footsteps approached.

“I plan to go in alone. Neither of you can resist the Stone’s pull so you will stay behind. No way around it.”

Jordis understood. She didn’t like it, the furrow on her brow made that clear but she understood. “If you are attacked?”

“Plenty of Daedra I can summon,” answered Felwinter with his mouth full, “I can manage up to four of them at once but if even that proves not enough, I’ll do what I can to draw them back towards you,” he answered. He lifted the bowl to his lips and drained the rest of the stew. “We’ll approach the temple slowly. You two are to tell me the instant the Tree Stone starts pulling on your minds. From there, I go on ahead and under no circumstances are either of you to approach.” He sets his eyes on Gregor, who somehow looked even less pleased with the reality of the situation than Jordis, the way he scowled into his bowl. “Forget what honor demands. Forget your obligations. Your thane has given you a direct order. Can I trust the both of you to obey it?”

“Yes, thane.”

Gregor let out a great sigh, his hackles dropping with his shoulders. “Aye, thane. As you command.”

* * *

Captain Veleth was at the gate, waiting for them once again. Arano had joined him, as did the First Councilor, to Felwinter’s surprise. He bowed just slightly to Morvayn and his second, before clasping Veleth’s forearm.

“I’ll be honest, First Councilor, didn’t expect to see you before we set off,” remarked Felwinter, directing Gregor and Jordis to mount up.

“You’ve been tasked with saving our city.” It was Arano who spoke for him, hints of sleep absent from his features, despite being awake so early. “It was the least we could do.” Arano turned away to look back at the gates. “The entrance into the town will be closed and the Captain’s men will remain ready, as per your suggestion.”

Veleth nodded. “We will keep a few of my best near the Earth Stone,” he said, “We’ll be ready for whatever comes and we only stand down on your say so.”

Felwinter put his hands to his lips and called out for Arvak. A short rumbling and the horse burst from the ground in an explosion of violet light and cold fire, saddled and prepared. Morvayn watched the display with only a hint of surprise and took some measure of comfort in this small but significant display of the Dragonborn’s power. Still, he had to ask, “Are you ready, Felwinter?”

“Ready to go home.” The man’s response was immediate and was as in jest as it was serious. “Whoever this mage is, Miraak himself or some pretender. They’ve caused us all no small measure of worry and grief. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“You have no idea,” Morvayn muttered darkly.

“Then they’re owed some grief back.” Felwinter looks towards his housecarls, waits until the both of them meet his gaze and signal to him that they are prepared. “They may have started this fight but I’m ending it and if I’m in a good mood by the end, I’ll end it quickly.”

He set his wide, unblinking eyes straight ahead. Even from a distance, Morvayn could see how small his pupils were becoming. Felwinter licked his drying lips in anticipation. Then he said, “I am not in a good mood.”

Arvak bucked its head and set off into an easy trot. Felwinter’s pair of Nordic guardsmen followed suit, their horses snorting at the uneasiness Arvak exuded but still dutifully trailing the undead beast Felwinter called his steed towards the eastern horizon, into the rising sun. Under any other circumstances, Morvayn would have watched. Not these ones. Instead, he nodded to Veleth and started the walk back to his home, hearing the grating of the gate as it closed shut behind him and sealed his town from the outside world.

* * *

There would be plenty of time to talk on the return to Raven Rock and at whatever celebration that was sure to occur afterwards. Their journey remained silent, Felwinter only breaking it to reiterate their plan. He would move in alone, they would stay behind, nothing had changed.

Felwinter eventually led them into a clearing and told them they were getting close. He could feel the magic wafting through the air and as he suspected, the Tree Stone was indeed significantly stronger than the one back in Raven Rock. They pass another wall of trees into another opening and this time, the ancient, ruined structure of the Temple of Miraak could be seen, clear as day, outlined by the morning sun.

Felwinter had Arvak stop and then he pointed, directing their eyes to the stone walls, green and brown and old and...occupied. People walked back and forth along them. They all had different things clutched in hand, tools, bundles of wood, buckets of quarried stone. They all wore different clothing, some the patchwork armor of bandits and reavers, others the thick leathers and furs of those who could only be the Skaal. Where they all matched was in their faces. Eyes, low and unblinking. Mouths, drawn open just slightly, moving on occasion. And none of them noticed the new arrivals. Most likely, none of them would.

Felwinter spurred Arvak on. Gregor and Jordis followed for just a few more steps. Then, in the same moment, both tugged on their reins and stopped. Felwinter twisted his neck to look at them. All he needed to know was drawn on their faces.

“This is the furthest I can manage, thane,” Jordis said. Her words came from a throat as tense and tight as the line of her shoulders. Gregor only nods, his forehead beginning to glimmer in the cool air.

Felwinter dismounted Arvak and made his way back towards them. He takes note of how close they managed, up to the first set of snow-covered steps, and how far they were from the temple. Then he took hold of the horses’ reins from both their tight grips and began to bring them around. Felwinter led the pair back towards the treeline they had just passed, keeping his head turned and his eyes on their faces until the tension turned somewhat to relief.

Felwinter goes to face the temple again, taking in not just its ancient foundation but the newer structure being built atop it. It resembled the one in Raven Rock but on a much larger scale. He wondered if the other Stones looked the same. He wondered what it was meant to be and he feared for what they were meant to do.

Felwinter starts forward, feeling the stone’s influence ram against his mind and wash over it like waves against a towering mountainside. He stopped to look back at his housecarls. Their eyes were on him and on the temple but they made no moves to follow; a good sign. Felwinter turned back and began to resume his climb before something caught his eye and forced him to pause again. A rounded spike, sticking out of the snow-heavy ground and curving. Too lightly colored to be stone, too round and curved to be of natural causes. Intrigued, Felwinter approached to get a better look. He didn’t need to come much closer and even found himself stumbling back, eyes tracing its length and finding the rest of the structure underneath his feet. The spike was a rib, connected to a cage, connected to a corpse. A massive one. The monstrous corpse of a dragon, stripped of all skin and sinew. Its maw was wide open and its body was embedded in the hard-packed sand and snow-covered dirt, in a way only time could have managed.

It did not die of natural means. Dragons do not die of natural means.

Felwinter took a breath and then forced himself away from it, striding up the hill with renewed vigor, born of anticipation. He reached the summit and climbed the wooden stairs. There were more people than he had first noticed. Most of them had been hidden within the deep center of the temple, working and chanting all around the Tree Stone, which stood like an ancient spire at the temple’s heart. Working and chanting, too reminiscent of prayer. Felwinter’s breathing deepened. The back of his neck began to prickle and he struggled not to summon his weapon to his hand.

Felwinter moved away before one of the enthralled could run into him, her glazed eyes looking far past. The interior of the temple continued from the rise where Felwinter was standing to a lower level, connected by another wooden set of stairs. He didn’t bother to take in more of his surroundings. The power and sick magic rolling off the Tree Stone did so in waves, like an almost visible miasma. He had never seen or felt anything like it around the Earth Stone, even when he had been close enough to touch. He was still several long strides away from the Tree Stone and now he was feeling just an inkling of what all of the others must have felt.

Pattering, light and quick. It took only three footfalls before Felwinter twisted on his heel, a blade ready in one fist and ice crackling in the other.

There was someone running here but not towards him. The woman came into sight once she rounded the Stone, her eyes upon it, not even having noticed Felwinter. Her forehead was slick with sweat, her chest rose and fell rapidly and the weapon at her side was tinged red with blood. The sturdy, blonde Nord moved freely, most certainly not enslaved to the Stone upon which her attention remained despite Felwinter’s arrival.

In apparent agitation, she paced back to where she had come, keeping out of the immediate perimeter of the Tree Stone, careful not to touch it or the people working around it. Felwinter managed a few looks at her face and when he did, all he saw were plain but young features hardened by anger and frustration.

His magic dispelled. Zazikel disappeared. Felwinter began his approach, taking it slowly as to not startle the woman and failing as soon as his foot skidded against the stone. The young Nord reacted immediately, ripping the bloodied war axe of Nordic steel from her waist. She twisted with a yell, weapon raised, prepared to drop and found Felwinter just a few steps away, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

The axe didn’t move. It didn’t start falling towards his head, thankfully, but neither did it return to its holster at her waist. She glared at him, her mouth a hard, snarling line and her eyes wide and unblinking. “You one of those cultists?” She demanded, “Here to join your brothers and sisters in Oblivion?”

Felwinter’s eyes darted away from hers for only a second. He only needed the second to find the bodies of dead masked men and women stacked in a pile at the far end of the temple. “I’m not,” he replied. “The opposite, as a matter of fact. Those same cultists attacked me some time ago, in Skyrim.”

“Why?”

He felt it was best to answer truthfully. “My name is Felwinter,” said Felwinter. Her eyes narrowed immediately and her arm wavered. She recognized it and her eyes searched his face for any sign of duplicity. “They attacked me for being Dragonborn. Proclaimed me false. I’m just here to find out who sent them and put a stop to any future attacks, alright? Nothing more. Please remove your blade from my face.”

She does, only after another half-minute. She looks him up and down, then to the Tree Stone, then back. “That’s why you’re not affected,” she murmured.

“Yeah, it’s why I’m not affected. Now, why aren’t you?”

The Nord’s face shifts into something that attempts to be a smile but comes off as a grimace. She gestured with her head. “Look around,” she tells him, “Most of the Humans here are Skaal. My people. Between every stone on this island, my village has lost over half its number.”

Felwinter’s eyebrows raise slightly.

“My father is the shaman,” she went on, “He’s doing what he can to protect the few of us that remain. A magical barrier that helps us resist the Stone’s influence from home. He developed a smaller version of it, a spell that confers resistance.”

Now his interest was truly piqued. He needed to meet this man. But Felwinter’s reminded himself to keep his hopes low, however. The lines marring her face told him that the protection was not absolute and would likely not last. Still, he asked, “Can you teach me the spell? Right here, right now?”

The Skaal woman hesitated, her jaw working beneath the skin. “Maybe but with so little time and little magicka left, I admit, I don’t think I would be the best teacher.” She brought up the hand not clutching the axe, pressed her fingers to her temple and began to murmur under her breath. Felwinter felt the shift in the air just before her fingers started giving off a gentle blue light. Her eyes had closed. When she opened them and shook her head, as if clearing fog, they seemed weary but more determined. The stress lines faded from her features and she began to look more her age.

“I think I can help free the people enslaved by the Stone,” Felwinter told her, “I would start by finding whoever is behind this and taking them down.” He pointed to the way from where he came. “I’ve got two allies at the base of the temple. Strong fighters, the both of them, but they can’t get any closer without being taken.”

“You want me to cast the spell on them.” The Skaal woman caught on quick.

“Yes but let me provide the power. I’m well-rested and I’ve got stores to spare. Maybe it’ll last longer that way.” The Skaal woman looked unsure, adjusting and readjusting the axe in her hand. Then she looked back at the Stone, at the people laboring and murmuring reverently around it.

She turned back, all hesitation gone. “Felwinter?”

“Yes?”

She nodded curtly and sheathed her weapon. “Frea. Take me to them.”

* * *

The gamble had paid off. As soon as Frea had finished her work, Jordis and Gregor made the climb with her and Felwinter back into the temple. Both of them looked strained but no more than Frea did this close to the Tree Stone and none of them made any attempt to approach the Stone more than necessary.

With more to their numbers and with quiet, Felwinter could finally hear the chanting more clearly. The First Councilor had been right. They indeed said the same thing, over and over,

_“Here in his shrine,_

_That they have forgotten_

_Here do we toil_

_That we might remember_

_By night we reclaim_

_What by day was stolen_

_Far from ourselves_

_He grows ever near to us_

_Our eyes once were blinded_

_Now through him do we see_

_Our hands once were idle_

_Now through them does he speak_

_And when the world shall listen_

_And when the world shall see_

_And when the world remembers_

_That world shall cease to be.”_

There would be some deviation, none of it attributable to free will but whenever there was, the name ‘Miraak’ would be intoned. People enthralled by the Stone’s magic, the name Miraak, the dragon corpses surrounding the Temple (Felwinter had counted four when he walked the perimeter), Felwinter was getting closer and closer to losing all doubt that this whole thing was much bigger than he had hoped to believe.

Felwinter took his third once over of the temple. Frea had told him that the part they were currently in was the upper level, that there were areas going deep into the ground. Regardless, Felwinter found this a terrible location for a fight, what with enclosed spaces and innocents shambling about them. And a fight was likely, Frea’s pile of deserving victims rotting in the corner was proof enough of this. If there were more cultists inside the Temple, their party would’ve been heard and made an appearance by now. If they approached from the outside, Felwinter could only hope that one of them heard in time, so they could meet them before they breached the Temple.

“Gregor, Jordis, how are we feeling?” Felwinter moved for a closer look at the Stone. He stopped at the edge of the miniature, murky lake surrounding its base. It had a smell to it.

“We are managing, thane.”

Best they could hope for. “Frea, when did you start losing people?”

“Three months and two weeks now,” she answered. It lined up with Morvayn’s reports.

“Before then, did you have any interactions with the cultists?”

“Our hunters and tradesmen would sometimes return with reports of strange robed figures in masks wandering the island but this is the first time I’ve seen them personally.” Frea walked up behind him, keeping a further distance from the Tree Stone. Felwinter looked away from it towards the dead bodies, saw Jordis pulling the mask off of one of them. The face revealed was the deep blue, weathered one of a middle-aged Dunmer woman. Had she been compelled? Were all of them?

Gregor was closest to the set of wooden stairs leading out of the temple, so when his head suddenly snapped towards the exit, it was all Felwinter needed to know.

“Someone’s coming,” Gregor announced for good measure. He turned back to his thane to find Felwinter already making towards him, blade at the ready. Gregor unbuckled his shield, heard Jordis and the Skaal woman, Frea, unsheathe their weapons, and felt Felwinter practically buzzing when he strode past. He stopped just before the stairs and threw his free hand out towards the pile of bodies rotting in the corner, muttering some expletive about necromancers. The bodies went up in bright, roaring flames. Then they all followed him up the stairs to the top.

Gregor hadn’t misheard. From their high ground, their crew could see the oft-spoken about cultists, making their way up the stone, snow-covered stairs, uniform in dress and masks, ten in number. Bringing up the rear was an eleventh, a tall and imposing Khajiit warrior, a dark red cloak trailing behind her and no mask adorning her face.

Felwinter muttered, “Take a step back, all of you.” He took a step forward once they did. The cultists stopped. The Khajiit’s hand, missing its largest finger, came to rest on the hilt of her sword. Grip present but loose and lazy, as if she was measuring them up.

“All this time,” Felwinter called out, letting his voice fly on the wind and drift over the hills, “All this way and you lot are still after me. I’m flattered! Truly. But I’m a taken man.”

No response. Not even a shift in stance from the cultists or a reaction in the face of the unmasked one. “I propose a deal. I ask some questions.” He gestured to himself then to them, “You answer them. Then everyone gets to go on their merry way. Sound good? Of course it does.”

Felwinter began to pace, his gaze never leaving the crowd before him. “Why have you enslaved these people?” he asked.

Silence. The cultists stood stone still.

“What do you intend for the All-Maker Stones? What is their purpose?”

“The ones I faced had as much interest in talking as these,” he heard Frea mutter when they failed to answer again. Just standing there, staring up at him. The only movement was their heads, tracking him as Felwinter stalked back and forth.

When he stopped, so did they. Felwinter rolled his shoulders, his neck and prepared for what would surely come next. The Dragonborn took one more step forward and demanded, “Who is Miraak?”

Only the maskless one had a reaction; her scarred face twisting into a deep scowl. The masked cultist at the head of their group took a single step forward, then turned to look back at her. Whatever question they silently asked to the Khajiit, a simple, barely noticeable nod was her only response. She never took her eyes off Felwinter as she gave it.

When the cultist turned back, gloved hands flew up with them. Felwinter’s ward came just barely in time to stop the ball of fire thrown towards them with dizzying speed and dangerous precision. The others flinched at the impact but did not waver. Nor did they waver when several more blasts of fire came for them, Felwinter’s ward their only defense. The vanguard of the cultists were a siege engine, throwing fire after fire in succession with each other so that the thunderous, explosive rain never ceased.

Pulling one hand away from his weakening ward, Felwinter pressed his palm to the ground beneath his feet. On the lower level, the world split open in a flash of purple and black. The onslaught stopped. The cultists turned their attention and their fire onto the two Dremora charging in their direction.

Felwinter let the ward drop and peered through the smoke. The Khajiit spoke and pointed, barking commands. She focused her eyes onto the black cloud drifting into the air and through its haze, locked onto his own.

Felwinter only needed to question one. She’d do.

“Keep them off me,” he ordered. He looked back at the Khajiit to find her already walking away. “I’m taking their commander.”

With a heave, Felwinter leapt off the temple and dropped to the ground level. He charged one of the cultists with a roar, running Zazikel through their chest and spinning to rip it out and keep his stride. The Dremora were a fury, two cultists dead at their feet in only the minute they’ve spent on the battlefield. With the departure of their commander and another cultist’s life’s blood running down his sword, seven were left for his five. Felwinter darted through the crowd, avoiding strikes and bolts of magic as he made his way to the Khajiit. As soon as he had a clear view of her back, retreating to the treeline, he Shouted, _“WULD NAH KEST!_ ” The view before him bent and folded. Felwinter felt his feet practically lift off the ground as his power propelled him forward.

With a whirl of her cloak, she spun and met him, sword in hand. His own clashed against it, his momentum sending her sliding back in the dirt but failing to topple her. She pushes him off and darts forward, short blade stabbing out at his chest. Felwinter jumps to the side to avoid it, moving back and aiming for her throat only for her blade to meet his again.

Their weapons remain locked, teeth bared as both pushed against the other and refused to give an inch. “My patience grows thin, Khajiit,” Felwinter growled, his pupils shrinking into tiny dots in a sea of white. “Who wants me dead?” he demanded, “Who ordered the attacks? _Who is Miraak_?”

The snarl on her face broadened and then twisted into a smile. The Khajiit leaned in until they were nearly nose and nose before rasping. “The god of this land and the future owner of your head.” Felwinter said nothing to that. His face remained hard and impassive. Her grin widened. “Does that answer not satisfy you, pretender? You seemed so...desperate...”

The strength to speak departed her. Without warning, the pressure Felwinter was exerting seemed to double, triple even. With what seemed to be by little more than raw strength, Felwinter forced the Khajiit down to a knee, her body trembling with all the effort it took to keep her spine straight and her body upright. Now, it was him who smiled, one that was just as wide as her’s was and twice as bloodthirsty. “More than you realize.”

Felwinter threw his blade out to the side and he did so with such strength and suddenness that the Khajiit’s shortsword was wrenched from her tight grip and sent clattering to the sandy ground. Her head swiveled away from where the sword had dropped and back to him just in time to catch sight of a heavy armored boot flying up towards her nose.

The kick toppled her, throwing her backwards and sending her sprawling. Felwinter looked down and grimaced, coldly at the cultist on the ground and derisively at the thin stain of blood that now covered the toes of his boots. The Khajiit, flat on her stomach, attempted to rise on shaking arms. Felwinter stepped forward and threw a second, even harder kick into the softness of her leather-covered stomach, knocking out what little air was in her lungs and wiping his boots off at the same time.

He wouldn’t take his eyes off his opponent but he listened to the fighting behind him and knew that his people were winning, even with the Dremora having returned to their own realm. Felwinter brought Zazikel up, taking it in two hands before reconsidering. He could interrogate the corpse. Bring it back to the world of the living just enough that it could be compelled to tell him whatever it knew. But the body would need a head and an intact throat to speak. He let Zazikel down, removing one of his hands from its ebony hilt and grabbing hold of her thin, muscled arm. The Khajiit was yanked forward, head lolling, her body held in place by the strength of his grip as he prepared to plunge his sword deep into the center of her chest.

Her head snapped up and she spoke. No, she didn’t speak. What she did was far beyond speaking; bewildering and nothing short of unmistakable.

The Khajiit _Shouted_ and the world shook with the unbridled power of her words.

Felwinter’s fingers lost the energy to stay wrapped around Zazikel’s handle. It slipped from his loosened grip and clattered to the ground. The blood rushing through his ears made it so that he never heard it.

The Khajiit’s arm slipped from his grasp as Felwiner staggered back, barely managing to breathe with the strength he had left. Shaking like a leaf in the wind, he dropped to one knee, trying his damndest to stay upright. His mind raced, spurred by confusion, panic and an instinct to react in some shape or form.

She Shouted again. The wave of power hit Felwinter full on and his last knee gave out. His back did as well, his fists planting into the ground to keep from falling onto his face like a puppet with cut strings. He was shaking even harder now. His heart thundered in his ears and his throat. Something wet and warm ran a trail down from his nostril.

The Khajiit rose back up to her feet. Felwinter did not even have the strength to lift his head and watch her. So when he felt the air shift, when he felt the buzzing suddenly erupt along his skin, he had no power to avoid what was coming or defend against it.

He shut his eyes and braced. Her hand flew forward and a magical blast of pure force hit hard enough to lift the big man bodily off the ground and send him hurtling almost to the height of the trees. He felt nothing but air as he sailed in a long arc, over the cultists, over Frea and his housecarls, backwards towards the temple. An era seemed to pass before he began to descend. Retaining some of his senses, he summoned a helmet at random to his head, just as he crashed through a flimsy wooden wall. His back slammed into something solid and cold and he fell, face first into stinking, murky water.

His strength was just beginning to return, as did feeling, as did pain. He heard his name being called as he attempted to rise to his feet, find his weapon, re-enter the fray. But then he was sinking, dropping slowly through the surface of the black pond that surrounded the Tree Stone.

He couldn’t remember if he tried to fight whatever force was attempting to drag him under. He wasn’t sure he did. All that was clear was darkness and in that darkness, a single black book.

It opened and the world fell away.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3


	10. Line in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick upload. Are you surprised? I am.

Jordis jerked back from the haphazard swing of a blade. She knows desperation when she sees it. She knows reeling when she sees it. Before the cultist can draw themselves back to strike again, Jordis darts forward. She thrusts her blade through leather and cloth and into flesh, feeling the body it belonged to seize up, more in shock than pain. Then, it went slack, the body sagging forward. With her shield, Jordis pushed the cultist off and away, her sword drawing from the body with a slick, almost silent sound and leaving it red from point to center.

Then, Jordis shook. Not outwardly, as if from wind and cold but in her entirety, as if the ground was shaking her to her very heart.

She heard a Shout. It was something she had grown used to in her time serving the Dragonborn. Even then and even from a distance, it was jarring. So when she heard the Word of Power fill the air not just once but twice, she grounded herself; kept her legs set and steady to keep from being rocked.

Her fortitude was nearly lost when she saw what came next.

The Khajit swiped an arm at Felwinter. Felwinter, who was doubled over on the ground, his sword discarded and his arms struggling to keep himself upright. With magic or just pure strength, Jordis was afraid to learn which, the Khajiiti cultist sent her thane hurtling. Through the air, over their heads and past her gaping eyes, Felwinter fell back towards the temple and down until he was out of sight. She didn’t hear him land.

Part of her felt as if she should be ashamed that all she did was watch as her thane, her sworn charge, was so brutally incapacitated, possibly even killed. But from the day she had met this man, he had always come across to her as larger than life, both in body and in spirit. To see the veritable mountain that was Felwinter Drakon be tossed off his feet and sent flying as easily as a child’s kicked ball, maybe she could be forgiven for not immediately jumping into action.

But she did. Jordis, with a horrified Frea and a red-faced Gregor ahead of her, broke into a mad dash for the Temple of Miraak. She forced her mind to empty, to cease presenting her with all the horrible and gut-wrenching thoughts such a sight was bringing about and to just run. Run and run as hard as her legs and heart would allow and still run faster.

Then she felt the buzz along her skin. To the forefront of her mind came Felwinter’s words, his lessons. Jordis didn’t even bother to turn and find the source or the cause. She knew she didn’t have the time. All she did was scream, “Get down!”

Gregor, Divines bless him, reacted perfectly. He reached out, grabbed Frea by the arm and roughly snatched her back less than a heartbeat before a ball of fire landed just mere inches from where she had been before. The explosion sent the dead cultists scattered about spiraling into the air, in charred bits and burning pieces. Jordis refused to give her mind the space to imagine that as one of their own.

She spun around, shield out, up, angled down. She caught the second ball of fire, painfully but a blessing compared to what it could have been. A third blast followed it, as Gregor and Frea took precious seconds to untangle and right themselves. Fourth, a fifth, each one blocked with pain that made her grit her teeth but blocked nonetheless. Dutifully, her shield remained up.

She heard another Shout and horror followed realization. Because of this, recognition came too late. Jordis attempted to lash out with her sword from behind the shield but the Khajiit had already shot across the expanse between them. When Jordis peeked over her shield, they were already eye to eye. Then the Khajiit threw her two hands forward. More buzzing erupted along Jordis’ skin.

The ground left her feet. Before she even realized it had done so, her back struck something hard, heavy and loud. Her body rammed into both Gregor and Frea and sent them toppling. Hitting the ground, her body kept rolling through the dirt and sand before finally coming to a stop. Jordis flinched away when something landed near where her head had come to rest. Her sword went clattering away another few feet, its point just barely missing her skull. Her shield arm ached something fierce.

Jordis turned to check on the others, to take in the sight of them. She saw the dark red scrape on the side of Gregor’s head. She saw Frea trying to rise on shaking legs, collapsing with a weak groan and then trying again.

The Khajiit was walking now, slowly. A shortsword in one hand and the other, a small, wickedly curved dagger, twirling over and around the maimed, clawed fingers. Her wide, bruised eyes remained wide, unblinking, set on them and there was never a time in her life more than now that Jordis has felt like prey.

Movement erupted from beside her. Gregor tore himself up from off the ground, letting out a fearsome, if not weary, growl as he did. He snatches up his blade, moves before Jordis and widens his stance, eyes dead ahead as he waits for what would come next. Another Shout, more magic, he did not care. And Jordis could tell, it would not matter.

“Frea…” the older woman called, the resignation in her voice palpable. “Go to the temple. Find Felwinter.”

Frea’s eyes widened. They passed back and forth between the two housecarls and the encroaching Khajiit. Jordis hauled herself to her feet, bending down with a pained grunt to take up her sword. Slowly, there was no point in rushing. “We’ll hold her here. Give you time to bring him back.” Jordis stepped forward, out from behind Gregor’s back to join his side. Gregor remained as still as a statue, though she could hear him swallow.

Jordis did not turn to look at Frea again, even as she heard the sound of feet twisting and running away. She was grateful the girl, in the end, chose not to argue, lest she make Jordis repeat herself and doubt even further what would come next.

“So...she Shouts,” Gregor muttered when they were alone.

“So she does.”

“Just like our thane.” He huffed out a small laugh, “What are the odds?”

“No point in odds with this crowd, Gregor.” Jordis fixes her eyes onto the Khajiit. “Though I wasn’t prepared for this. Neither was our thane.”

Gregor hummed. The Khajiit was moving so slowly, he was caught between wanting her to stay away for as long as possible and wishing she would hurry and get it over with. He kept his shoulders loose, his legs fixed and prayed he did not start shaking. He was at Fort Frostmoth again, an army of fiery undead scrabbling at his heels as he ran for his head. Here, there was no Dragon to save them. No Dragonborn to lead them. Here, there was no army, just one woman. Here, there would be no running. “I don’t feel good about our chances, Jordis.”

“Nor should you.”

Gregor licked his lips, tasting salt and sand and iron. Then he let out a slow, long breath. The nerves fell away. The fear remained but resolve joined it, as Jordis did by his side. “Our plan then?”

Jordis spread her feet out in the dirt. Her sword ready, her shield up and her eyes forward, all she said was, “No further.”

Gregor gave her one final look. Silently, he agreed. No words were needed.

The Khajiit paused in her slow walk. Then she Shouted again.


	11. Skies of Green

Pain. Pain was everything Felwinter knew in the seconds after his awakening. Every muscle in his body, every strand of sinew, seized and clenched, expelling what little air he had been able to pull into his lungs and leaving him gasping.

The agony never faded away but did so enough that Felwinter forced his clenched eyes to open. Darkness greeted his vision. Deep shadows made from very low light. He took in the sky above where his head lay, through gaps in the ceiling and saw what appeared to be swirling green past the black. Everything, from the color of the sky to the smell of the air, made his stomach turn.

He tests his hand at the wrist, then elbow. Then he moved his entire arm, still slowed by lingering pain. With it, he forced his body to turn over, off his back and onto his chest. It was only then he noticed that he was still in his armor and that Zazikel was missing.

Then, it all starts coming back. Zazikel knocked from his hand. The Khajiit had Shouted; Marked for Death, he was sure of it. Felwinter remembered the Shout ripping the strength from his limbs, the spell she had used to knock him back into...wherever he was, he assumed the inside the Temple of Miraak. Though, if so, why could he see the sky? And why was it green?

Then he remembered…a book? That particular memory made his head sting. Shaking it only made it worse.

He couldn’t hear anything from the outside world and panic made his stomach twist. He had left Jordis and Gregor and Frea alone with that monster. That _Shouting_ monster.

He had been so very wrong. About all of this. It terrified him to imagine to what extent he was. More so, the consequences.

Felwinter grits his teeth and with no small amount of effort, he pushed himself to stand. His legs failed and crumpled beneath him. When he tries again, he remains still for a few seconds, fearing to fall. His eyes stared down the long corridor before him, deep and shadowed. Conjuring a candlelight above his head, which took more effort than was reasonable, Felwinter began to trudge forward.

The shadows retreat, almost crawl away as he moves through them. The hallway felt endless though sense told him he hadn’t walked further than a few feet. He reaches out to find the wall and rests against it anyway. His armor feels like a mammoth riding along on his back but he does not dare take it off.

After a minute, Felwinter pushes off the wall and starts moving again, though one hand remains pressed against it. He goes longer this time, and longer and longer. He thought it was the shadows making the hall seem endless but even after some time, he still wasn’t seeing an end.

Felwinter reaches up and takes the candlelight in hand. The shadows around his head move back in almost immediately. To see how much longer his trek would have to continue, he takes the ball of light and tosses it forward, resting against the wall as he watches it fly slowly down the shadowed path.

It stopped, no... _something_ stopped it. Brown, gnarled appendages reached out from the blackness and grabbed the light, halting its journey. Felwinter pushes off the wall and moves towards the center of the corridor, his heart pounding in his ears.

The hand pulled the candlelight closer, letting it shine upon its face. A face that was far from human. Felwinter could only tell it was a face due to the two small, black openings that were placed above a narrow, vertical slit; eyes and a mouth. All of it wrapped in a writhing mess of brown tentacles, extending from everywhere along its head. Its body was hunched, its back a hump, all of it covered in black and green tattered materials that resembled old cloth. Felwinter saw no feet; just more tentacles, waving in the air just above the ground. Felwinter stumbled back in surprise at the sight and nearly lost his balance. The monster’s hand around the candlelight squeezed and popped it out of existence, leaving Felwinter in darkness again and the monster, invisible.

The markings along his arm shone through Felwinter’s armor. The magic he used to call his weapons had only begun to spark when he heard wet gurgling his ear. Then he felt buzzing. An invisible wind struck Felwinter in the back, not only knocking him forward but sapping what little energy he had managed to regain as well. He fell to his knees and then forward onto his chest, no strength to even breathe.

From where his head lay, he could hear more of the deep, wet gurgling and could see those floating tentacles move past his head. Then two sets of hands, thin but strong, wrapped around his arms and lifted him until only his knees dragged along the floor. He hadn’t even noticed the second one.

Too weak to resist, the two creatures carried him forward, the shadowed hall a blur in his vision. Through the fog, Felwinter felt the world shift and move around him. They were suddenly out of the dark hallway. He could feel the draft of moving air. The smell of rot was stronger here and wafted up into his nose.

Felwinter noticed the slope before him too late. The hands released him and he fell. Felwinter rolled down the hill, feeling every protruding bump and sharp rock through his armor and kicking up dust in his wake. When he finally reached the bottom, he could feel the scratches on his face and arms stinging. He was on his back again and with no walls to hide behind, he saw the sky bright and clear, green and swirling. Despite everything, with the way his mind drifted, untethered by exhaustion, the sky reminded him of Sovngarde. What a time to start thinking about Kodlak.

“ _So he arrives. The lady played her part well_.”

Someone had spoken and it wasn’t to him. The voice was masculine, a humorous and smooth lilt to it. It angered him. He didn’t know why.

“You’re gonna wish they kept me out there,” Felwinter muttered, more to the sky than to the voice. His words were threatening, his tone made it clear he would have little ability to back it up. The voice huffed out a small, condescending laugh. With no small amount of exertion, Felwinter twisted himself over onto his stomach once again. His eyes, screwed shut by the effort, fluttered open as he tried to push himself to his feet on trembling arms. The first thing his eyes took in wasn’t the face of his captor, as he had hoped. Instead, his sight was filled with something large and dark flying towards it.

By the time his brain had processed what he was seeing, the object struck him, full-on in the face. Felwinter’s head snapped back and the explosion of pain had him roaring. His arms gave out from under him and he fell, clutching his nose, wet and stinging so terribly, he could feel it behind his eyes. The voice, still further away, chuckled at him again.

Moaning, Felwinter brings out his hands to look at them. Floating as they were, he could see the dark blood running down his fingers. He touched his nose again, gently and still very nearly sobbed at the pain.

“ _That’s enough, my enemy_ .” Felwinter could just barely hear the voice, between his own labored mouth-breathing and the ringing bells in his head, “ _Let’s not knock him out again_.”

A second voice responded harshly. This one was closer; his attacker. “ _You do not command me, gray-skin_.”

“ _I do. Stand down._ ”

Then, there was a third voice. Calm, low and full of steel. It was so powerful and imperious, Felwinter, for just a moment, forgot his pain. He doesn’t see it but hears the kicker spit close to his head before walking away. Felwinter turned, tried to look at him while the world continued to spin but the kicker had already moved back into the shadows. The first voice was only partially hidden by the shadows. His head and most of his face was covered by a hood, only revealing a single bright red eye and part of a dark blue face. _Gray-skin_. A Dunmer. The Dunmer smiled at him and dread twisted Felwinter’s already unstable stomach.

Then, the third voice speaks up again and Felwinter’s focus could be nowhere else. “Felwinter Gregory of House Drakon. Bastard son of Delilah Talara of House Drakon, Lady of Dragon’s Ascent and the knight, Ser Isran.”

Felwinter hung upon every word. It demanded his attention, his submission and every part of his being rejected that.

“Hero of Skyrim,” it continued to boom, “Savior of Tamriel. I’m sure if I tried, I could find it in me to be impressed. But I am not.”

Felwinter turns his eyes in the direction of the voice. From a rise above him, he could see the outline of a figure, coming down from the top, a large book barely visible behind him, elevated by a podium. The man was of middling height, broad-shouldered but lean. He was smaller in stature than Felwinter but his presence was so commanding, the shadows seemed to retreat at his approach. As if they’d grow legs and run if they could. As if they’d bow if they could.

“The Khajiit woman who sent you here? One of mine. I sent her to test you, Felwinter. And you failed miserably.”

Felwinter clenched his teeth again. “Sorry to disappoint,” he murmurs, “Wasn’t prepared. And I’m so used to cheating.” Slowly, Felwinter forced himself upwards, coming to his knees. The sky was still green. He could taste ink and rot on the air. “I’m in Oblivion,” he realized.

“Observant.” The shadowed figure stepped just a bit closer. Behind Felwinter, the tentacled monsters, the Daedra, moved back and around, coming to stop behind the stranger. “This is Apocrypha. My former prison. My current staging ground.”

Felwinter reached up and wiped his nose, the contact making him grind his teeth. More blood stained his gauntlets. “For what?”

The figure moved further from the shadows. His robes were a deep, dark blue, accented with belts and chains of dark gold. The man had no face. In its place was a mask, one of bronze, with narrow slits for eyes and tentacles extending from the bottom like a beard carved from stone. Like the Daedra who shadowed him. Like the cultists...

Felwinter swallowed and refused to blink. “Who are you?”

The masked head cocked slightly. “Is that a question? If it is, it is not one that should be aimed at me.” He jerked his head to Felwinter, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. “You tell me. Who am I? What am I?”

His response grated on Felwinter’s nerves. “Ugly as sin? I assume it’s what the mask is for.”

Behind them, the Dunmer’s hand darted out and caught someone against their chest. The one who had kicked him, likely coming to do it again. That person shoved the Dunmer’s hand away but remained in the darkness.

“Using humor to deal with the very grim reality of your situation. Understandable but pointless. A waste of my time, Felwinter. I want an answer to my question.” He asked again, “Who am I? What am I?”

The masked man had drawn closer and now, Felwinter could feel it. A pressure against his skin, radiating off the masked man in roiling waves. Like magic but too strong, too primal, too forceful and it only got worse as he continued to draw closer to where Felwinter kneeled.

He was close enough. Felwinter forces himself past his exhaustion, puts one foot underneath him and tries to rise to his full height, to loom over the masked man. But then something rips through him and it is unmistakably magic. The masked man never moved, never even shifted in his posture but he did something that had Felwinter falling to his knees once again. A gloved hand came from behind the masked man’s back and grabbed him by the head, fingers framing his face. Pressure was applied, to ensure he didn’t try to stand again.

The power, the presence Felwinter had been feeling since he laid eyes on the man was overwhelming now. He felt it from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, every fiber of his being roaring, screaming, thrashing in a rage he could barely keep contained. It demanded everything of him; that he stand, that he fight, that he killed any who would dare challenge him and that he start with this one, to make an example.

The hand held him tightly. The narrow holes in his mask bored into his eyes and at that moment, he understood. He understood everything.

_Dov wahlaan fah rel. Dragons were made to dominate._

The man took in a breath and asked, just one more time, “ _Who am I?”_

Felwinter’s voice was little more than a croak. “ _Miraak.”_

A smile could be heard in his voice, clear, even if the mask covered it. _“And what am I?”_

_“Dovahkiin.”_


	12. The Ocean Recedes

Though there were no walls, the word echoed. Miraak hummed as he felt the power of his own name rumble through his old skin and resonate through his older soul. He relaxed his grip on Felwinter’s head. Weak and sluggish, Felwinter just barely managed to keep from falling forward, slumping onto himself instead. 

“I’ve heard the whispers, Felwinter. Your deeds resonate through Oblivion. Your defeat of Alduin, your destruction of the Volkihar, your decimation of the rebels. Annoyances I would have had to deal with when I came to power, no more. You have my gratitude.” 

Felwinter spoke, his throat still raw. “Come to power? What-”

“After ages of being contained in Apocrypha, I plan to reclaim my place in Tamriel,” Miraak said, his voice almost cowing Felwinter into silence. He had taken a few small steps away, his hands returning to their place behind his back. “Thousands of years ago, I tried. I tried and to oppose me, the dragons sent the one being I even remotely consider my equal. Our clash was what sent me here and here, I have remained ever since. With the boundless knowledge contained in this realm, I have learned. I have grown. Dragons dominated the lands of Tamriel until they were struck down. It is only right that I take my place on their proverbial throne of all mortalkind.” 

Miraak reached forward and grabbed Felwinter’s skull again. “Long ago, I fought one I just barely considered my equal. He is gone. His body faded to a husk, his name faded from memory even further. Now…” He looks the struggling man up and down. “Now I look upon you. I look upon what you have done and I see just a glimmer of potential that is barely there.”

“So it is with you I will start,” said Miraak, “When I have struck you down, when I have taken your life and your soul, then and only then will I take Skyrim and Tamriel, piece by paltry piece.” One of his gloved hands fell to Felwinter's neck and gripped him tight. Struggling even further, Felwinter felt himself be lifted up, rising slowly from his knees to his kicking feet. 

In panic, he found strength. Felwinter’s arm darted, magic filling the palm he brought up to shove against Miraak’s mask. 

The hand freezes mid-flight. Pale blue light had encased his arm and was holding the limb in place, his spell stopped just half-inches from the bronze mask. Miraak chuckled smoothly. 

Despite himself, Felwinter gave a weak and throaty laugh back. “I’m already here,” he rasped through a tight throat. “Why wait? Give me my blade and we’ll settle this ‘debate’ like true Dragons should.” 

The challenge sounded suicidal when thought about and even more so when spoken aloud. But Miraak’s words burned inside him, bred the beginnings of desperation and admittedly, some fear. Of all the upjumped would-be conquerors he had faced, none seemed to evoke the sheer feelings that Miraak did; of gravitas, of dread, of capability. 

But Miraak just cocked his head. Through his mask and voice, Felwinter could hear him smiling. “Tempting,” he murmured, amused, “But I want you at your best. To realize the true power a Dragonborn can wield and test your mettle against mine. Besides, I’ve made too many promises to cast all of this off on easy slaughter.”

The name ‘Apocrypha’ rang in his head like a bell but he could not bring himself to place it. “Promises? Of what?” Felwinter demanded, “To who?”

Miraak doesn’t speak. Just throws back his head and lets out a short burst of laughter, dark and contemptuous. 

Then his grip on Felwinter tightens again and suddenly, they are falling. Felwinter felt the entire world twist and spin around his head. The sensation was short-lived but viscerally intense. Nerves and nothing else kept the contents of Felwinter’s stomach exactly where they were. The sky, however, refused to stop spinning. 

Through the fog, the air felt different here. He hears noise and as he comes to just a bit more, the noise gets louder and louder. At its peak, it was ear-splitting and came from everywhere at once. 

Miraak began to move him, his smaller stature belying great strength. Felwinter’s hands came up to the wrist of the hand still clutching his face as he was turned around and forced down to his knees. Miraak held the back of his neck in a vice, forcing Felwinter’s vision down and keeping his head from turning away from what Miraak wanted him to see. The world did stop spinning then and with perfect clarity, Felwinter took in the sight. 

Miraak answered his question with glee. “To them,” he said, his voice no louder than a whisper but enough for it to ring around Felwinter’s mind. He had taken them to the top of a tower, pushed against a balcony and forced to look over. Far below, Felwinter takes in the sight of the ground, covered entirely by a raucous, roiling mass of Daedra that stretched so far and so wide, Felwinter could not see where it ended and the horizon began. Ash Spawn, Dremora and Atronachs, armored warriors and misshapen monsters even Felwinter had never seen before clamored up at him like a clutch of starving, newly-hatched birds, begging to take the helpless prey that had been brought for them and tear it apart. 

Felwinter’s heart fell into his stomach and his lungs constricted, making him fight for every breath he took. Not once did he blink. The stark, glaring reality of the situation was hitting him full-on with all the restraint of an enraged giant. 

The Ash Spawn and Falx Carius. The All-Maker Stones and the cultists. All of them a prelude. All of them the harbingers of what was to come. 

Miraak opens his mouth to speak again. Still, his voice refused to rise above a whisper. “We are coming to Skyrim, Felwinter. Me, for you. Them…” he gestures to the army, “For everyone you know.” 

Felwinter’s senses come alight. An instant later, a heavy shadow flew over their heads. It roared a dragon’s roar and from below, several others began to join it. 

Miraak bent to get closer to Felwinter’s ear. He could feel the heat of his skin radiating through his mask. “I allow you your life. But only under one condition; heal your wounds, gather your allies, learn your potential. For soon, I will return home and when I do, I will bring this  _ sea _ with me. To leave destruction and change in our wake. Grow, Dovahkiin. Harden. Become the wall that halts my advance. If not, you will be swept away with the tide and the last thing you ever see will be everyone you know and love drowning for your failure.” 

Miraak straightened and finally, his hand around Felwinter’s neck came loose. Felwinter swayed with the sudden freedom, dizzy and sick. He heard Miraak fill his chest with air and let it all out in a sigh. And then he said, “You have been warned.” 

His hand came again to Felwinter’s head and pushed. Felwinter pitched forward, twisting over the balcony and falling into the ocean of Daedra, screaming as the sky drew further and further away; with the clawed and monstrous hands grasping up at him. 

He drops for what feels like eternity. Screams until his throat runs raw. 

And then the hands take him, by his arms, by his legs, by his mouth and head and Felwitner feels them. All of them. Ripping and tearing pieces of him off in a violent and ravenous fervor. 

Gnarled fingers cover his eyes. He feels a second of pressure before they erupted in a pain that had him screaming and thrashing even harder. At the same time, everything in his vision went dark. 

It stopped. As abruptly and as jarringly as it started. Everything remained dark. Felwinter could not see the green sky nor smell rot and ink nor taste the metal of his blood dripping onto his lips. 

He could hear and all he heard was...chanting. 


End file.
